


Scattered Into Ashes

by lostinadream (LydiaOfNarnia)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, Historical lesbians, Protests, Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire, fire metaphors, like a shitton of fire metaphors im so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2018-10-25 11:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 81,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10763322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/lostinadream
Summary: Born into a world of privilege and luxury, young socialite Mary Alice Merran has spent her life being handed everything she's ever wanted. Her world is rattled in 1910, when strikes break out across New York City. Workers are rebelling; women want rights; and Mary becomes enraptured by a girl with fire in her hair and steel in her eyes. An undercover journalism career, violent strikes, and an illict romance all culminate in a disaster that threatens to burn up everything Mary cares most about. With her future at stake, Mary must choose between the world she's always known and the one she wants so desperately to belong to.





	1. Chapter 1

_If America is a living being, her soul lies in her people, and her heart lies in her factories._

_In New York city alone, many women work from the day they were born. Families turn to their children to keep them survive; single daughters find their place no longer in the home, but in the factory. They are familiar with empty stomachs and hollow pockets. From the moment they are old enough to step onto a factory floor, work is their life. Days are called to end by sore limbs and exhaustion; every morning dawns with the promise of more work, and the hope of not going hungry that night._

_These women work to survive._

_Immigrant families are most vulnerable to the labor force. Irish girls, Italian girls, Yiddish girls… these voices are the most deserving of volume, and the most easily ignored. Why do we deafen ourselves when they cry out INJUSTICE? These girls, who weave our shirtwaists, embroider our shoes, sew our hats… they bring our luxuries into existence. When they want to exist, we do not let them._

_Why should they be silenced? Why should these women be deprived of a voice, and demonized when they try to claim one?_

_Everyone has a right to be safe in their workplace. Everyone has a right to their opinion --- that is what this free country of America was founded on. We are not built on the backs of immigrant labor, oppressing the less fortunate for our own means. Is America a country of ignorance and cruelty? That is not what these young woman dreamed they would find in the Golden Country._

_The workers are determined to no longer remain silent, and it may be high time we listened._

_\---- Meredith Bly, editorial in_ The American Journal, _November 1909_

* * *

No chapel has any right to be this full on a Friday evening. It is crowded with bodies; women sit shoulder to shoulder in the pews, heavy coats grating against each other when pulled tight around shivering frames. An oppressive chill lingers in the air, characteristic of New York in December. It does not make the spacious hall any more hospitable.

Where there is no elbow room, however, energy fills the air. Voices carry well in the wide chamber. They echo over each other like a Grecian choir, each one with something more important to say. People jump to their feet, calling out to get their voices heard. Up at the pulpit, the woman meant to be enjoying her turn to speak tries valiantly to wrangle the crowd back under control. The crowd's enthusiasm, however, is as infectious as it is untameable.

No one in the room is immune to the firey atmosphere. If there is any calm within the storm, she sits in the fourth row, at the very end of a pew. The woman stands out from the sea of socialists and immigrant workers. She is not one of them; she does not carry the hard set to her shoulders, the electric energy that has distinguished every speaker who has touched the stage so far. Her purple coat is plain, but well-made; the hat on her head is askew at a low angle, as if she wishes she could hide herself. The delicate etch of her features do not carry the same weariness of the workers, nor the fire-and-brimstone of the revolutionaries. What distinguishes her least of all is the notebook in her hand, and the pencil clasped between long white fingers.

The woman hunches forward, glaring down at her page. It is a valiant attempt to keep her head from spinning. The chaos does not bothers her; she's felt at home in more raucous places like this. The clamoring crowds, all vocal and furious, do not cause her to brace herself against the assault to her senses. The notebook in her lap is growing creased. Pages crumple the further she bends over it. Her pencil cannot move fast enough.

How unfortunate that she can't make sense of a word being said.

It occurred to her before she'd entered the hall that most of the garment strikers are Jewish working women -- hard, fast Yiddish speakers with electric tongues and plenty to say. Somehow, she hadn't realized that their tongues would weave words more naturally in their home tongue. Every speech so far has been in Yiddish. She is blindsided, scrambling to keep up... but it’s no use. She can't understand more than the occasional declaration shouted in English. These she dutifully jots down, along with any names she’s quick enough to pick up, but it isn't everything she needs. No glance at the page is needed to see that it won't be enough.

Another speaker steps up to the front of the room, raising her voice to be heard over the crowd. The writer's teeth bare in frustration. This is half assembly, half riot. So much energy coursing through the room is too intoxicating to be tamed. It cannot be put off. Even someone deaf to the meaning behind these fiery speeches cannot help but be moved. Each person in this room is indelibly alive; they spark with their own opinions, demanding to be heard.

Women taking such a stand is not something that she’s used to seeing. It is nothing she’s ever witnessed before. Working women -- well, maybe that’s the key. Perhaps the line between classes is the reason these women, in a hall full of like-minded sisters, are unafraid to stand up.

They have _so much_ to be outraged over. Before coming tonight, the writer thought she had a basic understanding of their struggle. In the middle of this assembly, her ignorance couldn't be more clear.

The reasons behind the strikes are more complex than a simple paragraph in a paper can sum up. These women are not just protesting working conditions and low pay. They are furious. They are outraged. At being worked until their hands bleed; at being subjected to the wandering hands of foremen and factory guards; of being searched, having their belongings combed through each day when they leave work for any pilfered string or strip of fabric. They're protesting against stifling conditions, against money being forced from their own pockets. They're protesting for their children, some of whom are young enough to be learning arithmetic, but are laboring at sewing machines instead. They are protesting to be given a voice -- recognition by a union, as workers and humans.

This is so much bigger than she imagined.

The protesters’ passion, their fury, bleeds into the cracks in the drywall, the groves in the wooden floor. Each voice rises over the others. She yearns to put them all into words... if only she could.

Something twists in her gut, indignant and angry. Her ignorance is its own form of poison, and it has made her dumb. She draws herself up, raising her head and narrowing her eyes at the stage. The woman who stands there now is short and stocky, with dark eyes and calloused hands that wave around as she speaks. The writer did not catch a name (perhaps none was given), and her untrained ears cannot make sense of the esoteric language. Instead, she focuses on what she can see. The determined set to the speaker’s jaw. The way her words, in their unfamiliar tongue, ring out loud and clear across the room. The women flanking her on either side, with their cool, serious expressions…

Her eyes focus on one of the women on stage. Time slows down.

It is impossible to mistake her. Her image has been seared in her mind since the moment she first saw her  ---  that split second which stole the breath from her lungs, shook the foundations of the world around her. She is just as stunned now. The warm lighting of the church makes a head full of copper-red curls gleam; as she listens to her friend, the girl's electric blue eyes narrow in focus. She makes a striking figure. It crosses the writer’s mind, in a split second of romantic irrationality, that she looks like an angel.

No, she has not forgotten this girl... or the earthquake she left behind her with each step.

(It was a frigid day in late November, sequestered in the safety of a warm carriage... when outside, a sea of people dres traffic to a standstill. The confusion of a half-moment... that bobbing flame over a sea of heads... a roar in her ears, a rush in her stomach, adrenaline coursing through every vein. Her heart pounded against her ribs until she could _feel them_ splintering. From the window of the carriage, the isolation of her own little world, her eyes locked upon more than a woman. She fire itself; a myth, a legend. This was the passion that spurred King Arthur towards the Holy Grail, that began the Trojan War, that rippled over seas and swallowed ships whole. The girl stared at her; she stared back, and in that instant, every second of her life which led up to it suddenly became inconsequential.)

No sooner has she relieved this moment than the group on stage shuffles. The woman on the platform steps aside... and the redhead takes center stage.

She pulls herself up to her full height (she can't be more than five feet and a few spare inches, but on stage she seems to tower) and regards the crowd fearlessly. In an instant, the audience belongs to her.

“My name is Mila Radhofsky,” she announces in clear English, “and for the past five years I have been a slave of the factories!”

She switches to Yiddish as she continues, and the speech crackles like fire off her tongue. The writer's pencil stills over her notebook. She cannot write any more -- all she can do is watch, entranced, as Mila bewitches the crowd around her. Her words are golden, dripping honey from her lips onto the crowd below. She twines a glossy spiderweb throughout the room, catching her audience up in it. She does not just command the attention of the room -- she spins it into something that is hers alone.

There are no interruptions as she speaks. Not a soul is willing to cut into the fervent passion that fills her words, her every movement. Even unable to understand her words, for not a second can the writer question their meaning. Every emotion Mila feels is reflected in her face, in the furious gestures of her hands and her proud stance. There is no misunderstanding her. No looking away.

When Mila cuts off at last, her chest is heaving. Flushed cheeks glow with sweat and exertion. Her fervor took as much of a toll on her as the crowd... but when the hall rises up into a cacophony of cheers, she does not look exhausted. Pride shines in her face, gleaming brighter than a smile ever could.

She steps back, but the writer still finds herself searching her out. Her eyes follow Mila as she retreats to the back of the stage, allowing other speakers to have their turns. They are all passionate, but none are as electric; none of them bind the crowd the way Mila was able to.

The meeting stretches on. The energy of the room is still present, and it only builds as the hour ticks away. It is a spark, being kindled into an inferno. The writer can feel the heat burning her skin, emanating from this impassioned group of protestors. Never before has she been surrounded by so much _life._

When the last speaker has stepped from the podium, when the last hour has slipped by and the room’s occupants are slowly trickling away, the pins-and-needles feeling doesn't leave her skin. What she just witnessed was unlike anything she's ever known. So many people united for a cause is more than stunning. It reassures her that, no matter the challenges before her, coming here tonight was the right choice. She is exactly where she needs to be.

The writer straightens up, smoothing down her skirts, and pulls her coat close as more women filter past her out of the church. There can be no thought of leaving yet. She has something to do, someone she needs to see. Instead of heading towards the doors, she approaches the stage.

Only a few stragglers linger. Most are speakers themselves, women who delivered their passionate dresses before the crowd. They are cleaning up, shoving papers into suitcases and handbags. One woman pulls a hat tightly over her pinned hair; another slips what looks like a pamphlet into her boot. Though she takes note of all of this, the writer's eyes are set on one figure alone.

A low hum of electricity thrums underneath her skin. She can feel its pulse in her ears. Her stomach vibrates with the beat of butterflies wings. Half of her wants to turn on her heel, to run away faster than her conscience can catch up. Once she raises her voice, she cannot go back. She can't close this door once it's been opened. Never has it felt more real than at this moment.

She could go home, she thinks. She could forget about all of this, and just leave.

( _No, she can't._ She will never be able to forget this night.)

Before she can think better of it, her mouth opens. “Excuse me?”

She catches Mila just as she is pulling on her coat. The heavy fabric hangs off her thin frame, almost doubling her in size. It would look comedic were they both not painfully aware of the frigid air outside. As Mila turns her head, her shoulders move with her. Her face, the writer finds, is much more striking up close.

She has a petite nose, turned up slightly in a fine arc that sets off the rest of her face. A shapely jaw highlights clear skin and neatly pursed lips. That hair, so arresting from first glance, is cut startlingly short, bobbed to her chin in a mop of unwieldy scarlet curls. Two piercing eyes, teal as the ocean and just as deep, peer at the stranger with an open sort of confusion.

“Can I help you?” asks Mila in that same clear voice, carrying the hint of an accent. For a moment, the writer is dumbfounded by the question.

“Yes,” she replies, feeling breathless. “I hope so. If you can.”

“Can I?”

“Yes,” she repeats, prompt in her answer now that she's found her footing. Mila is still staring, a mix of bewilderment and skepticism warring on her face. The writer doesn't falter as she draws herself up with as much dignity as she can manage. “I was very impressed with your speech, Miss Radhofsky. You have a presence on the stage -- I couldn’t take my eyes off of you the entire time.”

Mila blinks, amusement dancing through her eyes. “Thank you. Did you catch any of what I said, or was _my presence_ all that left an impression on you?”

She doesn’t wince, but it’s a close enough thing. Mila’s eyebrows quirk upwards in fine twin arches. It is obvious that this very American woman had no way of understanding her words. She doesn't look offended; if anything, she seems unsurprised. “How can I help you, Miss?”

“My name is Meredith Bly. I'm a reporter with _The American Journal!”_    She thrusts her hand out. A moment's hesitation passes before Mila accepts, shaking it firmly. “I'm writing a series of articles on the strikes, and I would like your help.”

“My help?” echoes Mila, surprised. There is a flash of intrigue in her eyes. Meredith Bly seizes upon it. “What can I do for you?”

“I don’t speak a word of Yiddish.”

“No kidding.”

“I came here tonight thinking I'd get a lot out of it. I did, but I won't lie to you -- I feel like I'm in over my head. What you're fighting for is so much bigger than I imagined, and I want to help. I really, truly do.”

Mila takes a step closer, studying the reporter like a bird over an intriguing worm. Meredith Bly forces herself to keep standing straight, not faltering under the scrutinizing gaze. “What I need,” she says after a breath, “is an insider.”

Mila blinks. “And you want me?”

“You didn't see yourself on stage. I couldn't have chosen better.” It's not an exaggeration. From the proud quirk of Mila’s lips, she knows it. “I don't only need a translator. If I'm writing these articles, I need to give these protests a voice. I need a star. I want that to be you.”

She is not the first reporter to take an interest in the budding strikes. In the week since they began, they've plagued the papers. New York City has ground to a halt, and the press can't keep their paws off the story. Still, her offer is a unique one. It's clear Mila wasn't expecting it, and she has probably never heard anything like it before. (Maybe this is presumptuous -- Meredith Bly prefers to think of it as being _intrepid.)_

A long moment passes. Mila scrutinizes the reporter’s face with cool, narrowed eyes, combing for any sign of deception. Meredith Bly, in turn, returns her gaze steadily. She will not show fear; and maybe her false confidence works. At last, the wary shadow in Mila’s eyes fades into something… ravenous.

She holds a hunger like none Meredith Bly has ever seen -- a righteous inferno, burning her up from the inside out. In that moment, there is no chance Mila will walk away. They both want the same things; and Mila _wants_ so desperately, so furiously, that it is impossible for her to turn her back.

Meredith Bly can give her what she wants: a voice.

Mila can not say 'no'.

“Miss Bly,” she says, a smirk stretching across her lips, “if you can get us on the front page, I'll let you make me the star of your article. And I will be... the _brightest star_ you could ask for.”

This is exactly what Meredith Bly hoped to hear.

“Perfect,” she says, stepping up and boldly seizing Mila’s hand again. There is a sort of rebellion in shaking it, when all her life she's been taught otherwise. There is no demurring here, no hidden smiles and careful curtsies. Mila is not one to bow her head, and she doesn't demand it of her either.

A grin splits Mila’s face, the first real smile the reporter has seen from her. It makes her eyes that much brighter, curls shining like copper in the warm church light. “When do we get started?”

Hand still clasped with her new ally’s, Meredith Bly returns the smile with a broad one of her own.

“What do you think of right now?”

* * *

 Jack Halloran is well on his way to becoming a very important man.

If there is one truth the media, the newspapers in particular, can acknowledge, it is that very important men have power. They can not be underestimated. It is not the working men who fund monuments, who christen the libraries and charities that will carry their name over from one century to the next. The working men build them all; but powerful men call them their own. New York stands upon the shoulders of giants. There is no one the newspapers love writing about more than the wealthy and powerful.

Having worked in the office of _The American Journal_ since he was sixteen, this is a truth Jack knows too well. His own success was clawed to existence through desperate determination, palms shredded and fingernails splintered as he ascended the ladder of authority. From the start of his career -- a sixteen year old boy straight out of Brooklyn, stubborn as nails and bone-thin from a life of tenement poverty -- he was dead-set upon making himself wealthy. His position at the company then was little more than an errand boy; he ran papers back and forth between the editor and reporters. His most important job was cleaning the office at the end of the day. He was the least important person in the room -- and, consequently, had the most to prove.

Prove himself, he did. Chief editor of one of New York’s biggest papers is no small position. Jack made it there by a lethal cocktail of competence and bullheadedness. Not only is he an apt manager of everything that falls into his lap, Jack has a sharp intuition about people, and a keen eye for good stories. It took him a mere decade to rise up the ranks of the newspaper office. From the lowest rung of the ladder, he is now within reach of the top.

Shadows hang heavy over the alley outside of _The American Journal’s_ office. The streets are not quiet, but this space is secluded; no one thinks to notice the lanky figure lounging against the wall, half-concealed by darkness, except for the people who are looking for him.

Heeled boots echo against the concrete, and the figure raises his head to greet their approach. The Jack Halloran of today is nearly unrecognizeable as the scrawny Brooklyn boy of nine years ago. He has grown into his features, with a strong jaw and broad shoulders. Stray strands of dark hair escape his slicked back style, the result of fingers being run through it one time too may. They frame eyes just as dark, hard and analyzing against otherwise amiable features. Jack has a face that could easily be called handsome.

He does not seem surprised by the two women making their way down the alley towards him. Impatience, rather than wariness, hunches his shoulders as they approach.

“It’s ten at night,” he says, as if this is an inconvenience that weighs heavily on him. It isn’t. Jack has a habit of staying at the office well into the night, organizing and writing with the same manic energy that drives all his work. “You’d better have something good for me, Boss.”

“You don't sleep anyways. And in fact, I do,” replies Meredith Bly. Her arm knocks against the women next to her. Mila takes the cue to step forward. “I’ve found my source.”

“Mila Radhofsky,” Mila introduces, unintimidated by Jack’s appearance. “Nice to meet you, Mister Editor-in-Chief. You the man who's gonna put us in the news?”

“That's my job.” He offers his hand, and Mila takes it readily. “You’re one of the strikers.”

“Even better than that. I want to be a union organizer, if we can get ourselves recognized.”

“That’s bold.” Jack looks approving. “Then again, there’s no other word for getting up and walking out of your jobs. It can’t be easy.”

“It’s necessary.”

Mary watches this exchange with a rapt gaze, eyes darting between the two. It takes a second for their eye contact to break; just like that, Jack breaks into an easy smile. It melts the intensity from his face, dissolving away five years in seconds. Mila’s shoulders relax.

“I hope you’ve got something worth writing about.”

“We do,” interjects Meredith Bly, unable to contain her excitement for a second longer than necessary. “We’ve got more than that. Jack... this is a story.”

When she'd approached Jack Halloran with the proposition of reporting under a pen name, he’d been understandably hesitant. If anyone should be writing articles about these strikes, it should not be this reporter. Should Meredith Bly's involvement be discovered, it would be more than enough to get Jack fired, and blacklisted from every other newspaper in the state. Jack, however, is never a man to flinch in the face of a challenge. Meredith Bly never never even considered he would refuse her.

“Alright, ladies. Let's hear what you've got.”

Jack moves to the door of the building, hauling open heavy steel. The staircase that stretches up is steep, concealed in shadow. Mila hesitates for a second, steps faltering. Her wide eyes flicker towards Meredith Bly. This flicker of trepidation is nothing but reasonable. Mila is no fool; she senses that there is something unusual about this, and no one could blame her for feeling apprehensive.

“It's alright,” Meredith Bly murmurs. When she lays a hand on her arm, some of the tension drains out of Mila’s shoulders. “Trust me.”

Mila takes a deep breath and steps through the doorway, her new ally following close behind.


	2. Chapter 2

As she steps through the doorway, coat pulled tight around shivering shoulders, the house is silent. It usually is. 

She remembers a time, years ago, when the great mansion off of Fifth Avenue was filled with life eternal. That was when Merran was one of the greatest names of Manhattan society; when the family consisted of three strapping boys, and a rosy little daughter. Back then, the household was bustling with children and staff. The lady of the house was as great a hostess as Fifth Avenue had ever seen, and the master was a proud tycoon nourishing his newspaper empire. In those days, the foyer was filled with light; maids and footmen darted around corners and through side doors, visitors' voices drifted down the stairs, and always, always, the laughter of children echoed through the halls.

That was a very long time ago.

Now there are no pounding footsteps, no figures darting about the bustling hive. There is no need for a vast staff, when so much of the house sits empty. These days, only the master and mistress of the house are left, with their youngest child; and Mr. Merran is always preoccupied with work, while Mrs. Merran is nervous. There is the butler who opens the door for her, the housekeeper and cook downstairs, the maid and footman undoubtedly working hard to keep things orderly behind the scenes... but their work is done in silence.

No one notices her as she slips back into the house, under the heavy veil of night. No one wants to. 

"Thank you, Riley,"  she says, pressing her coat into his waiting hands. The old butler regards her with muted concern  --  as if she is a newborn bird, dangerous and unsteady, about to tumble over the side of the nest. As if this nest hasn't been her home for upwards of eighteen years; as if she is not slipping back inside, to the sweet embrace of everything familiar and unbearable.

"Your bed is ready, Miss," Riley says. "Will you be heading upstairs directly?"

She glances down at the notebook still clutched tightly in her hands. Pale lips purse, turning bloodless.  "Actually," she replies, "I think I'll stay up a bit. I have some writing to do. Might some tea be brought up to me?"

The butler bows his head, mutters an affirmation, and she bids him goodnight with a smile. It will not matter if she stays up later, she knows, though the hour is already well past midnight, and exhaustion weighs at her limbs like anchors.

Her body is tired, but her mind is awake and electric. It seems to be the only thing in the world that is.

(All except Mila.)

It won't matter is she stays up late, because no one on earth will notice.

* * *

Laughter fills the room as Mila dances on light feet, deftly avoiding any obstacles in her path. She spins like a fairy, never quite touching the floor beneath her. Her joy bubbles and rises throughout the tiny cottage, a melody of jubilance overflowing too much to contain. It's infectious. The bright grin on her face has her companion grinning as well, and Meredith Bly doesn't even mind that the newspaper Mila clutches to her chest is getting rumpled.

"We did it!" Mila sings. "Front page news!"

"How about that?"

Mila stops in front of her only to lean forward over the table, beaming. "Oh, Meredith, this is -- this is fantastic. Amazing. All I could have hoped for!"

Mila's joy is still radiant, but the sound of the false name from her lips makes her ally flinch. If the other girl notices, she gives no indication. "I mean, besides getting what we're actually fighting for, of course -- but exposure is good! It's what we need, right? There's no way they can ignore us now that we're on the cover of every paper in the city.” She slides up to perch on the edge of the counter, clutching the newspaper in a determined vice. “Won't be long until those fat old moneybags will come crawling back, begging for us to start working again. Meredith --"

"Mary," the other woman interrupts, voice low. Mila falls silent, bafflement on her face. She regards her friend with unveiled curiosity; the reporter stares back, unflinching. _"Meredith Bly_ is a pen name -- not my real one. I'm called Mary."

It takes Mila a moment to process this, before her lips turn up at the corners. "Well, that's not so different, is it? _Mary,_ then. I like it."

It is like releasing a breath held in for far too long. Hearing her real name from Mila's lips is a reprieve; suddenly, the spiral of half-truths she's been weaving these past few weeks hardly seem as tangled, or as grievous. Maybe it's the mood she's in -- warm and amiable and halfway to drunk on victory -- but Mila accepts this truth with an ease that leaves Mary hopeful she can accept the rest of them too, in time.

It is not that she enjoys lying to the woman she is beginning to call a friend. Dishonesty is a natural evil; it is bitter, but essential, like ingesting a cure to neutralize a poison. In this case, poison is reality, and lies are honey-coated pills, making it easier to wash down. With luck, and the good grace of the newspaper-consuming public, Mary might never have to reveal to Mila the extent of all she's kept hidden.

It isn't as if their every interaction  thus far has been founded on lies. She introduced herself under a false name, true; but she _is_ a reporter. In a sense. She had never written an article before  ---  the one Mila holds in her hands is the very first she has ever written.  She does work for _The American Journal..._ but only so far as her own father owns the paper. Mary may not be the intrepid reporter she has painted Meredith Bly to be, but her experience is not the least of the lies accepted so easily by Mila.

Even the cottage they're in now was chosen with the purpose of concealing her identity. The little villa, located in vast Langley Garden, is practically in her backyard. The garden has been owned by the Merran family since Mary was a little girl. She has fond memories of summers spent among the flower beds, marveling at the canopies of foliage which bloomed across the roofs and walls of the small cottage. As a child, she'd always compared it to a fairy paradise; growing older, she appreciated the refuge from the urban bustle in the very heart of the city itself. Now the villa is a refuge again, but for a different reason.

“This is where you live?” Mila had asked as she stepped into the dark little house. Mary, preoccupied with starting the fire to warm the rooms up, had been too distracted to think of an excuse.

“Yes,” she'd said. “I live here.”

It isn't as charming now, in the crux of winter. No flowers are in bloom; it, like most of New York, seems washed out and grey with the season. Mary clings to the memories of bright blooms and petals swaying on the breeze as the seasons roll forward, and she can't help but think that Mila would like this place in the summer.

“It's beautiful,” Mila had said of the sparsely furnished cottage, and she sounded like she meant it. The genuineness to her words made Mary smile. _Oh, you haven't seen how beautiful it really is._

“I feel bad,” Mila says suddenly, and Mary is jolted back to the present by the suddenness of her remark. She lifts her head, piercing Mila with a questioning gaze. The girl smirks in return. Her legs swing against the counter she is perched upon, heels clacking on the wooden floorboards. “We don't really know each other, do we? But you shared a secret with me, so now I have to share one with you.”

“You don't have to,” says Mary, but she can see by the delighted look in her eyes that Mila _wants_ to.

“My name is Mila Radhofsky, but before I came to America I used to be called _Mila_ _Iosifovna Radhofskaya_. I haven't been called that in ages, and I moved to America ten years ago, so I'm much more comfortable as a Radhofsky than a Radhofskaya at this point.” She offers up a small smile. “We lived in a little shtetl called Radi, but we moved after things started getting bad for Jews there. So, we packed up our things, walked off, and came to America just like that. That's how I got here, and I've been here ever since. That's my story.”

“Quite the story,” says Mary, nodding solemnly. She hadn't known for sure that Mila was an immigrant, but she’d figured. The  Russian Jewish community clogs the immigrant districts of New York City; they also dominate the garment workers trade. If they do not run businesses, then they are working in factories or sweatshops. There was a reason so much of the union meeting was preached in Yiddish.

Mila leans forward, like a bird zeroing on its prey. Her body is tilted so far forward that Mary fears she'll topple right off the counter. “You want to write about the strikes. You'll have to learn stories -- not just mine, but everyone else’s. My story doesn't really matter, but others do.”

“Those are the stories we're going to tell.”

Mila leans back, smiling, clearly pleased by this. Mary feels herself relax.

“Good. We may not know each other well, but I like you, Miss Mary. I think we're going to get along very nicely.” She holds up the paper in her lap, gazing at it again with reverence. Her pride is unmistakeable. Their article is a beautiful, revolutionary little thing, and she helped bring it to life.

“If you keep writing like this,” Mila declares, “we're going to become very good friends.”

The words fill Mary with an inexplicable, brimming warmth. Somehow she finds that she'd like nothing more than to get to know Mila well.

* * *

  **10,000 WAISTMAKERS TAKE STRIKE TO CITY HALL**

Girl Strikers Appeal to Mayor, Protest Against Police Violence

_MAYOR REFUSES TO RESPOND_

Factory Owner Maintains Factories Still In Working Condition

* * *

“We’re one of the only papers reporting favorably on the strike,” remarks Mr. Merran over breakfast. Mary tenses, hand freezing around the cup in her hands.

Family breakfasts are seldom interrupted by speaking these days. Usually the lady of the house takes breakfast in bed, leaving father and daughter to make idle conversation over morning coffee. When she joins them, their meals are silent. It is much easier this way. Certainly, no one dares to bring up business, of all things.

Mary carefully does not look up as her father turns a page in the newspaper he’s poring over. Silent and pensive, he does not speak again. Mary stares down at her coffee. Her mother keeps her gaze trained down at her plate, either not hearing or not deigning to acknowledge her husband’s words.

Mary cannot read her expression on her father’s face. This is the worst thing of all  — he is, in general, an easy man for her to read. Hastily, she waves their maid over to the table.

“Another tray of pastries, please.” Mary’s father loves pastries.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The maid walks off, and the door shuts behind her. Mr. Merran still doesn’t lift his head from his paper.

Finally he breaks, sighing as he sets the newspaper down at the table. Mary remains tense. She lifts her face to meet her father, and for a second she is certain he can see right through her. She feels transparent; as obvious as a crystal mirror, every secret reflected in full view. Her father regards her for a moment, face not changing expression, before he sighs.

“I contacted _The Journal._ Apparently these articles are all being written by some fellow named Meredith Bly.” He places his finger on the page, where the words jump out at him. “I’ve never heard of him before, and I said so. Our editor assured me that he is ‘the most reputable journalist’ he’s ever had the pleasure of meeting -- which, of course, means he hasn’t met him at all.”

Mary can feel her heart thrumming in her chest like an locomotive engine. Her father is watching her, and she watches him right back.

“I’d like to meet this reporter,” he says, and then turns back to his paper once more. Just like that, the tension evaporates as if it was never there at all. He picks up the crust of one of his pastries and smiles down at it as if it has personally pleased him. “I like to know what’s going on with my paper.”

Mary forces herself to breathe, swallowing past a dry mouth. “What about the articles? Do you approve of _The Journal’s_ stance?”

Not long ago, her father's newspaper adhered to his own principles. He was a liberal man in nature, but wise in practice; he supported those who supported him, and for an successful businessman, that meant Tammany Hall. Tammany was not for the working-class rabble. In the days when her father courted favors from New York's political monolith, his papers printed exactly what Tammany wanted to read.

These days, however, he works more and cares less. If his paper sells, he is happy.

“I have no complaints,”  her father replies, taking a sip of his coffee and returning to his paper. Mary exhales.

This reassurance -- for what it’s worth -- is enough to ease her guilty conscience.

* * *

  **SUFFRAGISTS COME TO GIRL STRIKERS’ RESCUE**

Ms. Morgan and Ms. Belmont Lead Organization of Aid

_HIRES OUT HIPPODROME, SPEAKS FOR STRIKERS TO JOIN CAUSE_

Waistmakers Continue To Converge at Union Headquarters

* * *

“It's false. They're all so _false.”_

Mila’s eyes are shadowed. She looks tired; she _always_ looks tired, but acts as if it never affects her until it does. Now, Mila  looks as if she hasn't gotten a good night’s sleep in weeks -- she probably hasn't. She looks far older than her years should allow.

Mila shakes the paper in the air. “These society women take us on as their pet project, but they don't work for a living. _They_ go home every day. I have to sleep at the _union headquarters_ because I can't face my family until the strike ends and I've got a paycheck again.” When she laughs, the sound is bitter. “All those ladies, from their fancy clubs that don't even let Jews through the door. They stand out here ‘with us’. They say they understand. What do they _understand?”_

Mary feels as if something has curled up in her stomach and died. “They're trying to help, Mila.”

“They're trying to advance their own cause.”

“The publicity --”

“Is something we can manage on our own. We don't need wealthy suffragettes trying to turn _our_ cause into theirs!”

Mary inhales, trying to swallow past the bitterness coating her throat. She knows enough to know why the involvement of these wealthy women is important: they are making the public sympathetic to the strikers. Were it not for the support of influential women, those in power would have no qualms about crushing the rebellion. Mila knows it as well as she does, but her outrage is unprecedented. Mary can not look at Mila  ---  at her clenched fists or the way she paces the cottage, pure anger in her eyes. She cannot look at Mila because she feels certain that the moment their eyes meet, she will be laid bare.

“I have no sympathy for them. I don't owe them gratitude for bringing press to us. We were making headlines all on our own.”

Mary reaches out a hand to catch Mila as she walks by again, but thinks better of it. She pulls back; Mila pauses, gaze snapping towards her. When Mary offers up no words in return, she huffs.

“You don't have to agree with me,” she mutters. “At least I know I can trust you.”

“How do you know that?”

Mila's steady expression implies it should be obvious. Mary hears a crinkle as the other girl thrusts the latest edition of the paper towards her. The message is clear: Mary has delivered on everything she's promised so far.

 _You don't really know me, Mila,_ she thinks, and sinks back in her seat as the other resumes her pacing once more.

* * *

**GIRL STRIKERS FREEZE AS STALEMATE REFUSES TO THAW**

“Still Better Than Inside,” Says One Waistmaker

_HORROR STORIES EMERGE FROM FACTORY_

Factory Owners Consider Concessions to Workers’ Demands

* * *

 "Conditions are terrible," Mila says in a slow, thoughtful voice. As Mary scribbles along in her notebook, Mila charts her progress with her eyes. "In factories they range from bad to worse, depending where you work. It's boiling in the summer and freezing in the winter, but you've got to work 'til your quota is met. If you can't meet that quota, you don't get paid for what you make. If you ruin material, you've got to buy it from your own pocket, but you can't take it home with you or else they'll accuse you of stealing. At my factory, our bags are searched at the door before we can leave. They always know."

Mila's voice usually rings clear as a bell. When she talks about the factory, however, a roughness comes into her tone. Her accent empathizes each word, making syllables sharper and lighter in equal measure. She doesn't seem to notice, but Mary thinks she could listen to the lilt of Russian in her tone forever. It adds more gravity to what she says, a weight present when she speaks in her native tongue as well.

"I've seen women cut their hands badly on the sewing machines, but they can't stop -- only wrap their injuries with a piece of cotton and get back to work. We get no medical attention. No bathroom breaks either -- unless you can afford to rush. We're hardly allowed to leave the floor."

Mary swallows back a swell of anger in her throat, foul and bitter. "How do you tolerate such infuriating conditions?"

Mila's sharp laugh takes Mary aback. "Is that what you think we're doing now -- _tolerating_ them? Why do you think we're striking? We refuse to take it anymore."

"That's why you're fighting, then? Anger?"

"We're all angry. Many of us have worked in factories since we came to America, since we were children -- we've always known it's unfair, we just never knew what to do. Fear is very real. We were afraid walking out, and we're afraid every day. Will we lose our jobs? Will we be arrested? Worse?" Instead of her voice lowering, Mila's words begin to rise both in pitch and emotion. "The Italian girls --- when all of us Yiddish girls got up and walked out, plenty of 'em stayed right at their posts. It's not that they aren't treated horribly, it's not that they aren't angry. They're too afraid!"

Her fists are clenched in her skirt, wrinkling the fabric. Her knuckles are turning white. Without thinking, Mary reaches out and touches her. Mila's hands go stiff. It is a long second before the tension begins to drain out of them -- from her entire body.

"Fear makes you voiceless," she says softly, low enough that Mary had to lean forward to hear her. "It robs you of your own agency, and steals your ability to defend yourself. I am _so tired_ of being afraid."

This moment suddenly feels far more intimate. The air between them is heavy, charged with intensity. A stray curl is falling into Mila's eyes, and Mary's hand twitches with the desire to brush it back. Mila is glaring down at her lap, but Mary can only look at her.

It is a moment too long before she forces herself to pull away. Her mouth is dry.

"Do-- do you think you could lose your job?"

Mila sighs. "The risk is real. I am willing to give up anything for my rights -- whatever is asked of me. If that's my job, okay; if that's my life, I accept that."

There is no flicker of insincerity in her eyes. Mary's heart is pounding as she begins to scribble at her paper once more. "You're the bravest person I've ever met," she says after a moment, once the tension between them seems to have dissipated slightly. Mila lifts her head, surprised.

"Really? You think so?"

"Not everyone can do what you do," Mary says. "Not everyone is strong enough."

"I want a voice. I want to be able to stand up and be seen, be heard, and have what I say matter. I don't think that makes me strong. It might even be a little selfish."

"Selfish? How?"

Mila hesitates, as if it is hard to put this into words, thoughts too difficult to verbalize. "I want it for _me._ I want it. I want it for the other women too, but _I_ want to be recognized so... so much, so badly..."

"With an intensity that scares you," Mary agrees softly.

Mila pauses for a moment, processing the conclusion, before she lets out a tiny chuckle. "You're good with words, huh?"

"I always have been," Mary nods.

"When did you start writing? Have you always worked for _The Journal?"_

There is no subtlety to it. It's another one of Mila's bursts of curiosity, when she seems determined to learn more about the reporter she's been working with. Her earnestness is so obvious that Mary can't hold her tongue.

 _"The Journal_ is my first news assignment," she admits, a small smile playing on her lips as Mila's face brightens in victory. "I've been writing for as long as I can remember. Since I was a little girl. I used to run around my house with newspapers I made up myself... about all the things my family were doing. Good grades my brothers and I got in school, the neighbors' birthdays --- even weather reports."  She laughs softly, shaking her head.  "My father would ask me to read them out loud at the dinner table. He was so proud of me. I thought I was a real journalist."

Mila smiles fondly at the recollection, as if she can imagine a small Mary devoting hours to scribbling her makeshift newspapers. "When you wanted to become a writer, did you..." Her brow furrows, and she waves her hand vaguely. "Was it something you..."

"It was something that I wanted so deeply, so certainly, that I never considered anything else." Mary purses her lips, pausing for a breath. One day I looked at myself and realized that nothing would be able to stop me -- no matter what was holding me back, the want would never be any less visceral. I would always want it. Holding myself back would only hurt me."

There is a wistful, almost tearful look on Mila's face -- recognition in its subtlest form. "Yeah," she says softly. "You get it."

It's too close, too fast. Mary isn't sure whether she wants to reveal nothing or everything about herself to Mila, but she gets the impression that she just gave away too much. Hastily, she ducks her head and returns all of her attention to her notes once more.

"Denying yourself what you want is no good, is it?" Mila says suddenly. When Mary's head shoots up, there is a grin on the girl's face. "Real overrated."

For a long moment, Mary doesn't reply; then a huff of laughter escapes her, and she finds herself grinning right back.

* * *

 The winter wears on, colder each day. The strike hauls its burden through the frigid days as well -- everyday, girls congregate outside of the factory, cheering and calling for their rights. Day after day, until it seems the cause is as frozen as the streets themselves, splintering as cracks appear in its crystalline surface. Mary wonders how long the ice beneath the strikers’ feet can hold out -- if and when it finally gives way.

Every day, Mila returns from the front lines a bit more bedraggled, a little worse for wear. She has a new tale every time, something to go into Meredith Bly’s next article. It’s always something different -- stories of women being injured on the job, of protestors arrested in the streets, of strikebreakers attacking them with a vengeance. Every day, she seems a bit more exhausted.

“I'm not sure how long this can go on,” Mary says in an undertone to Jack when she delivers her latest article to him. “Something has got to break. They can't keep this going for much longer.”

The editor, having reported on more than his fair share of strikes, only shrugs in response. “You'd be surprised at how long a fire can burn.”

He doesn't have to say that the strikers are certainly being provided with enough fuel. Mary knows. She sees it in Mila’s blazing eyes, hears it in the stories she tells.

Mary is not on the front lines. She does not see the violence. She has not borne eyewitness to police attacking the strikers without mercy, to the strikebreakers who cut through the front lines with clubs. She only knows all of this because of the stories Mila tells, each one its own new layer of horror.

“Today Anna Dreyer was hauled away. A police officer hit her over the head, and she fell to the ground. She tries to get up, and he swung at her again, so she turned to run… but he grabbed her by the waist, and carried her off to jail.”

After a while the stories all start to sound the same, an endless stream of girls being attacked by thugs, arrested and sentenced. One girl, as young as twelve, was hauled off the line and sent for hard labor; Mary can’t help but wonder what someone so young was doing there, anyway. Who could arrest a child?

(She knows enough about business to realize that these police officers are probably bribed -- so are the judges, in that case. The thought makes her feel a little nauseous, so she tries casting it aside.)

The stories are endless, but they at least keep a steady stream of articles going from page to paper. Not every one of their articles makes it through; but through the combined efforts of Mary and Mila, Meredith Bly has become the only reporter at The American Journal reporting on the strike.

This is what Mary tries to comfort Mila with as every day she looks a little more brittle. They are making headlines. People are noticing, and caring.

As it creeps closer to the end of the year, however, it's clear how the burden weighs on Mila’s shoulders. She stumbles under it; on some days she looks close to sinking.

Mary sees all this, and she remembers. On some days the desire to help almost chokes her, but she does not know what she can do. She and Mila's are not nearly intimate enough for her to soothe her unprompted; and the thought of crossing unspoken boundaries with the girl who has already put so much trust in her twists Mary's stomach.

She yearns to help, but on some days Mila feels so far out of reach that she may as well be an ocean away.

* * *

Christmas Eve is a family affair, and in the Merran household it's no different. Their holiday parties have always been lavish, Mary’s mother taking full advantage of the family prestige to throw glittering holiday balls among high society. Every year, Mary looks forward to the ball with anticipation. This year, despite everything else on her mind, is no different.

This year the party is as lavish as those of the years before. The Merran family home is decorated to the height of the season. Tinsel hangs from every window, mistletoe on every doorframe. Their usual curtains are replaced by ones dyed a dense evergreen. Glittering gold and ruby ornaments adorn trees set up in every corner of the ballroom.

Mary wears a dress of red silk which flows around her like a shining curtain. It hugs her waist hanging just at her ankles to expose tight-fitting gold and white slippers. Every step makes Mary feel as if her feet are being compressed, and she isn't sure how to feel about the golden adornments on the breast of her dress.

"I feel like a poinsettia," she mutters, narrowing her eyes at her reflection in the mirror.

Her mother pauses in carefully tucking strands of Mary's brown hair up into a topknot to click her tongue. "Not at all," she replies, allowing her fingers to caress her daughter's chin. "You look like a holiday rose."

While she has no idea what such a thing would look like, Mary appreciates the sentiment. A small smile twitches across her lips. Her mother mirrors it, and gently pulls back another strand of hair.

The party is a regular melting pot of the wealthy, bleeding into the Merran mansion right off of the Fifth Avenue society pages. Familiar faces mix with unfamiliar ones; Mary makes the acquaintance of them all. She dances with her brothers, with her uncles, with family friends and distant relatives she hasn't seen in years. The youngest Goodwin boy steps on her feet more than once, and his sisters titter at them both. Alexander Kincaid seems more interested in watching the dancing than getting near it, but talking to him provides Mary a welcome refuge from the endless stream of unfamiliar faces.

"Having a trying night?" mutters Alexander, eyes flickering up from Mary's bruised feet. She rolls her eyes.

"It could be much worse. Great Grandfather Sebastian hasn't asked me to dance yet."

"May his cane trod on your toes many times over," is Alexander's benediction; and when Mary shoots him a look, "What? It's good luck."

By the time most of the guests have gone, it is very close to midnight. Mary’s feet feel like lead in her dancing shoes; the dress clings to her, causing her to trip on her way up to her room. Being away from the crowd is more than a relief.

Even as she shuts the door to her room, she knows she will not be able to sleep. There is an itch under her skin, not unfamiliar to her. She takes one glance at her reflection in the mirror and knows for certain that she cannot stay here all night long.

As she pulls her coat and boots on over her ballgown, her mind flashes back to memories of her as a child, sitting up electrified on Christmas Eve in anticipation of a man in a red coat and sleigh. She was as determined then to catch a glimpse of Santa as she is now, for different reasons. Sone traits you grow into, but they're always a part of you.

She makes it out of the house without being spotted. Her first instinct is to turn on her heels and retreat back inside. The cold is sharp as a knife, and glistening flurries drift down from the sky. Mary ducks her head and pulls her coat tighter around her, quickly making her way off of the Merran property. After that, it’s only a five-minute walk into Langley Garden, towards the cottage she has become so familiar with.

The only thing that can settle her mind is writing. She does not want to scribble by candlelight in the safety of her room. Mary yearns for the sanctuary of the place she’s grown accustomed to working over the past month.

The cold bites at her exposed skin, and she finds herself regretting not having brought a scarf just so she might be able to hide her cheeks from the cold. Her entire body shivers, and she pulls her coat more tightly around her as she makes her way down the paved path. She is fortunate to know the garden like the back of her hand; the thought of getting lost in the dark, alone, with snow coming down, makes her shudder.

The cabin is dark when she arrives, and she pushes open the door without hesitation. Only when she spots an unfamiliar shadow does she freeze.

There is a figure spread out on the divan, splayed across it with arms tucked into their chest. As the door cracks open, they gasp and sit up sharply.

“Mila,” Mary says in soft surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Mila straightens up immediately. It's hard to tell in the dim light, but Mary is sure her face is flushed. “I -- I didn't --” she stammers, before exhaling a sigh so heavy that it shakes her shoulders. The divan creaks beneath her weight as she slings her legs over the side, turning her back on Mary.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I shouldn't have come.”

"I didn't say that," says Mary, taking a careful step into the room. "I just wanted to know why you're here on Christmas Eve. I'm sure you've got other places to be."

"Hmm, union headquarters. No thanks. Not as if I don't live there now anyway." There's a crackly bitterness to Mila's chuckle that makes Mary wince. "I can't go there. I can't go home either. I can't bear to see my family. I haven't been home in --"

She breaks off, drawing in a shuddery inhale. It's freezing in the cottage. Mary can see the puffs of breath that linger before Mila's lips in the chilled air. When Mila finally does speak, there is a tightness to her voice. "Mary. It feels like _forever._ I want to go home."

Mary moves on instinct, making her way to the fireplace. She strikes a log, allowing the match to flare up before tossing it upon the brittle wood. She watches it catch alight from the safety of the hearth. Mila doesn't speak again; when Mary glances back, she sees the other girl’s face illuminated in orange light, her eyes dancing with the flame of the candle. Mila doesn’t look away, even as Mary gets up and walks towards her.

She is still hunched on the divan, though she no longer looks ready to get up. Still, Mila seems so small. The blanket she'd wrapped around herself is now falling off her shoulders, making her look painfully bare. Mary sits next to her, causing the divan’s cushions to creak softly beneath their combined weight.

"I'm sure that your family is alright. They're missing you, but they understand why what you're doing is important."

"Sure," agrees Mila softly. "They understand."

She shrinks down into herself. It’s obvious that she wants to lie down again, but in the presence of another person doesn’t quite feel comfortable. Mary thinks of Mila standing in the cold all day, not getting enough to eat, dodging strikebreakers and policemen. Her bones must be aching. She settles a hand on the crest of Mila’s back, and could almost smile at the way the other girl reacts to the touch -- Mila goes still for a split second before melting back, soothed by the gentle pressure.

Mary doesn’t have to say anything to coax her to lie down. Mila does and brings Mary down with her, the warmth of another body too much to give up in the chilly cabin. Mary wraps the blanket around them both, and doesn’t protest when Mila wraps her friend’s arms around her shoulders. Mary simply allows it, knowing that Mila probably finds comfort in the act.

It is a very long moment before either of them speak again. Mary is unwilling to break the silence. She almost thinks Mila has fallen asleep, until a small voice throws the assumption aside.

"Do you think they have enough to eat? My brother and I always get a tiny piece of chocolate from our father on New Year's Eve. Now that I'm not there... do you think he'll get more? Or will he..." She feels Mila swallow hard, her chest shaking slightly. "Will they be able to have presents at all? Or even dinner?"

Mary hushes her by brushing the hair away from her face. Her fingers glance across Mila's cheek, feeling the chilled skin as warmth gradually leaks back into it. It's still too cold for her peace of mind. She presses the flat of her hand to Mila's face, and the other girl sighs into the warmth.

Mary thinks of what it would be like to be separated from her family over the holidays. It would hurt, she's sure; the pain would be a physical ache, twisting inside of her and clawing to get out. It would make her feel as if she were missing a part of herself, especially if she wound up alone on Christmas. Mila doesn't deserve that.

"Stay here," she whispers. “Just for tonight. Stay.”

She isn’t sure what reaction she’s expecting, but she’s not surprised at all when Mila say nothing. The girl only sinks back further into Mary’s embrace, melting as if her bones have turned to liquid, and leans her head back against Mary’s chest.

This close, the intimacy is almost startling. Mary can feel _everything_ \--the exhales and hitches of Mila’s breath, her heart's steady _thrum-thrum-thrum_ in her chest. A soft sigh escapes the other girl and Mary feels as if she could reach out and grab it, tuck it in her pocket and make it hers forever. A little piece of Mila, as tangible as what she holds in her arms right now.

“Okay,” Mila whispers.

The silence that follows is as heavy as the blanket covering them, and just as soothing.

* * *

When Mila bursts into the cabin, flushed with cold as flyaway strands of hair cling to her face, Mary jumps so suddenly that she nearly upends her desk. While the cottage has been adopted as her official place to work (away from the prying eyes of anyone at home) and Mila has taken to finding her way here almost every day after leaving the picket line, the sudden entrance is unexpected.

“You won't believe it,” Mila gasps, skidding across the floor. “You won't -- you --”

“What?” Mary seizes her by the elbows to slow her down. Mila’s chest heaves as she struggles to catch her breath, and when she finally does she looks up at Mary with wide eyes.

“They're giving in,” she breathes. “The first factory owners decided to settle today."

Mary’s eyes widen as the news sets in. There are numerous factories involved in the strike, Mila’s being the largest with the greatest number of working women out of their jobs. Her factory is, of course, the most important -- but the revelation that smaller factories are beginning to settle is a breakthrough. Mary has learned enough by now to realize what this means.

“Mila,” she beams, “you could be home by New Year’s after all.”

“We can only hope,” replies Mila, looking close to tears. Mary doesn't think she'd ever seen the other girl so happy, and something about it makes her insides feel as warm as a furnace. She runs her hands up and down Mila’s arms, feeling out the thin fabric of her coat -- but if Mila has any concerns now, the cold isn't one of them.

“It won't be long now,” Mila chimes. When she looks up at Mary, it seems as if she's glowing; happiness reflects off of Mila like sunlight in a mirror, illuminating everything around her. “Mary -- thank you. For everything you've done, all you've helped me with -- thank you so much.”

Mary smiles down at her and tries to ignore the sharp twist of guilt in the pit of her stomach.


	3. chapter four

The strike doesn't end by New Year’s.

Mila’s disappointment is palpable. The slump in her shoulders as she slumps down at the cottage table is enough to make Mary want to bundle her in a blanket and keep her safe in the cottage. She knows that not every evening can be like Christmas. Not every morning can dawn with Mary waking up to Mila in her arms, tucking her in and slipping away before anyone back home can realize she's gone. Life goes on for both of them, and they must each bear their own burdens.

The windows of opportunity for them to meet are short -- usually no more than an hour or two each day, after Mila has come off the picket line. Mary puts all of her words to print. Mila’s passion fills Meredith Bly’s articles with life, and Mary’s writing makes them tangible. Together, they've become a team.

Even if Mila’s factory refuses to give in, it's obvious that the strike is beginning to wear itself out anyway. Day after day, more news comes of smaller factory owners conceeding to their workers demands.

“They'll be union-only shops now,” says Mila, a hint of wistfulness in her tone. “Better pay, working hours, breaks… they're lucky. They should be proud of themselves.”

Mary thinks Mila should be proud herself -- she's been on the front lines since the beginning. Even before the general strike, which started in late November, Mila had been one of the handful of workers at her factory striking for better working conditions. She was one of the unionizers who helped organize rallies and stir the girls into rebellion. Mila has been at this cause longer than most.

It's not just the cracks starting to appear beneath the surface of Mila’s fire-bronzed veneer that worry Mary. It's the mounting sense of urgency that comes with the strike getting smaller and smaller, as more and more factories settle. By late January, Mila’s factory is one of the only ones still holding out, and the strike is fading to the back of public consciousness. Even all of Mary and Mila’s combined efforts can not keep Meredith Bly’s articles on the front page.

“It's a big city,” offers Jack when Mary complains. “People move on fast.”

Mary can accept this, but it doesn't mean she likes it. She can see it in the purse of Mila’s lips, the way she pours over their latest published article with a scowl.

“Page eight. They put us on page eight!”

“It could be worse,” remarks Mary. “We could be in the society pages.”

The way Mila’s lips curl might be funny, were Mary not acutely aware of her own presence in the socialite sphere. She's never ended up in the society pages before, having never gotten engaged, married, or otherwise done anything scandalous. _The American Journal’s_ greatest rule is that it's owners be left out of its press. The paper reports nothing on the Merran family; in turn, the Merrans stay out of the negative spotlight.

Mila’s poring over the newspaper will not reveal the true identity of her co-writer, but Mary can't help the twinge of worry she feels whenever she spots a paper other than _The American Journal_ in Mila’s hands. If there was ever a mention, a suggestion of her, she feels irrationally certain that her secret would be lost.

She knows how silly her fears are. She would gladly call herself paranoid, were she certain that no danger existed. Even if there is the slimmest chance, however, that Mila could somehow find out, she cannot feel content to see another newspaper in Mila’s hands.

To occupy themselves, both girls throw themselves into their causes with fervor. Mary, into her articles; Mila, into holding together the last holdouts of the strike. Even as February wears on and the strikers grow more strained every day, Mila refuses to give in.

Mary has just left the cottage for the night, and her hands are aching from exhaustion. The article tucked into her purse stands testament to the work she's done today, and she's proud of having finished before sunset, but she needs to get this article to _The Journal's_ office before printing tomorrow.

The news isn't good: the stalemate stretches on, and the shirtwaist workers are starting to break down.

She's a little relieved that Mila wasn't here to see her write this article. With all the stress she's been under lately, she doesn't need to hear how grim things look. She knows, without a doubt -- Mila is far from stupid, and has had her finger on the pulse of the strikes for longer than Mary has.

It isn't dark outside yet, but the overcast sky more than makes up for that. Grey clouds swirl overhead, preluding a storm that Mary can only hope to avoid. The chill in the air bites into her skin, sending her hurrying down the winding cobblestoned path through the garden. She clutches her purse to her chest, and is so occupied with keeping her balance and her thoughts in check that she doesn't realize she isn't alone until a fast-moving blur races up the path towards her.

She only has time to register bright red hair and heavy breathing before a body slams into hers, almost knocking her off her feet.

"Mila!" she exclaims, clutching the breathless girl in her arms. She has no time to register the unexpected ambush before Mila buries her face in Mary's chest and lets out a sob, harsh and guttural.

Mary's heart plunges to her stomach. As her arms wrap tighter around Mila, holding her steady, the other girl clutches her like a lifeline.

"It's over," she is eventually able to make out through Mila's weeping. "We've given in. It's over."

"What? You mean, the strike?"

"My factory gave up." Mila lifts her head to meet Mary's stunned expression. Her eyes are wide, bloodshot from tears and exhaustion, and the pallor to her skin lends a fragility to her that is well hidden any other day -- as if a strong wind could crumple her to dust. Her fingers, however, dig into Mary's arms, pouring every ounce of tension into her right grip. "We gave up."

A cold vice of dismay wraps itself around Mary’s ribs. It was inevitable, but still the outcome they'd hoped to avoid. This means there will be no union for Mila or her factory. Her rights -- the things she has been fighting for since the beginning -- will not be protected. Essentially everything will return to the way it was before, and now with the final factory having capitulated there is no more fuel to keep the fire burning.

The strikes are over. Mila has been left empty handed.

Mary’s grip on the other girl’s shoulders grows gentle as Mila slumps against her. The girl’s shoulders are shaking with barely suppressed sobs, and fat tears stream down her flushed face. She is graceless in her despair, trembling under the weight of defeat, an utter contrast to the girl who spoke with such pride and determination of the rights she wanted for herself and her coworkers.

"I don't know what to do," Mila gasps. "This was it. I don't have anything left except to go back to the way things were before. I don't know how to do that. I gave so much... but nothing's changed. I thought things could change!"

 _I thought we could change the world._ The words go unsaid, but they ring loud and clear. Mary wipes tear-streaks from Mila's ashen cheeks, brushing stray curls of hair from her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispers. Another small sob tears from Mila's throat. She sinks to her knees on the stone path, Mary moving with her.

"I want to go home. I'm so tired."

"It's okay, Mila," Mary soothes. "Go home."

"I have to go back to work."

"You do."

"The fight -- the fight is over." Mila stops, gives a wet sniffle, and whimpers. "It's over. We _lost."_

"No."

The word comes out with such fierceness that Mary startled herself. She and Mila meet each other's gazes, eyes wide for a moment, before Mary steels herself and leans in. It is so wrong to see Mila broken down like this. She feels as if all she has fought for was for nothing, and she needs to know how untrue that is. If she can't see it, Mary will have to tell her.

"You have not lost. Not at all. Mila, you found a cause that you believe in, and through that you found your voice. You found me, and together we've managed to get your words heard. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"I wanted more than that," says Mila. "A lot more..."

"That's why it doesn't have to be over," Mary replies, smoothing the other girl's short curls down. "You believe in this, and you can still take your stand. You don't need a thousand people to build a platform just so you can stand up. If you believe in the unions, keep fighting for them. Go to meetings, attend strikes, speak out. That doesn't mean you have to cut yourself off from your family or your life. You can have both."

Mila regards her with wide eyes. It is as if Mary has just opened a hidden door to her that she never realized existed. She looks stupefied, amazed. "Can I?"

Mary nods fervently. There is no question in her mind that Mila deserves it. This amazing girl deserves everything she could dare to want, and if Mary could give even a fraction of that to her she would without hesitation. (It's a bold thought, she realizes, perhaps a little crazy -- but no less true for the realization.)

“Mila,” she says, “you can.”

The girl inhales a shaky breath, and her flushed mouth stretched into a smile. Even past the hints of blood budding up from cracks in her chapped lips, her grin is as radiant as ever. The stress that has come to line Mila’s face in the past few month fades away, revealing a girl as warm and alive as her eighteen years should allow.

“You are an amazing person, Mary,” she whispers. “You're a top-notch reporter, and a great friend. I couldn't ask for anything more from you.”

Some irrational part of Mary wishes that Mila would ask more, though she has no clue what more that could be. Instead, she presses a hand to the other girl’s damp face and forces her own smile.

“Go home tonight, Mila,” she tells her. “You've earned it.” 

* * *

After that, there is no more need to Meredith Bly, anonymous reporter on the garment workers’ strikes. Mary publishes one last article detailing the Triangle factory’s capitulation to their owners’ demands, and hands in her pen for the time being.

“So,” says Jack when she hands him her last article. “Did you get what you wanted?”

There is a wryness to his dark eyes, amusement dancing in the slender lines of his face. He smirks at Mary as if he knows something that she doesn't, but whatever secret he feels he is a part of, Mary is sure that she has just as many of her own.

“It was the experience of a lifetime,” she says honestly. “I was a real reporter.”

“Well, your alias was, at least.”

Mary ignores him. “After all this, I don't know how I'm going to go back to reviewing vaudevilles.”

The editor’s hands still over his typesetter; Mary doesn't notice that he's stopped moving until she looks up and finds him watching her intently. “Are you going to continue writing?” he asks. Mary blinks, as if the answer should be obvious.

“Are you going to continue working here? What do you think all of this has been, a hobby? Some passing fancy for me?”

Jack shrugs, busying himself again as if he can't wait another second. He looks a little sheepish, which gives Mary grim satisfaction to see.

She isn't well-known for her commitment, but she never would have gone to such drastic measures if she didn't care about being a real reporter. It wasn't just the strikes that lured her to them; it was the dream of seeing her words in print, of finding a voice in spite of the world's insistence that it has no use for her words. She proved everyone wrong, and stuck with Meredith Bly to boot.

Now, it feels like a shame to hang her reporter’s hat up for good.

“There are a few people who've read your articles and have gotten interested. I know a few editors of union magazines who've asked after you. Even the editor-in-chief here has been wondering about the mysterious Meredith Bly.”

“Should I be worried about that?”

Jack shrugs, face remaining carefully expressionless. “That depends on whether you intend to turn in your pen for good, Boss. If you're really interested, there are ways to keep writing.”

Mary freezes, eyes locked on the smooth surface of Jack’s desk. The idea of continuing to report on the strikes had never occurred to her.

Even with the words she'd said to comfort Mila, her vision of the future of the worker’s movement had been clear in one thing: it did not include her. Mary hadn't even considered that she could keep on writing about the strikes. _The American Journal_ would have no use for such articles; other newspapers would be even more reluctant, and Mary didn't have connections there like she had with Jack. She hadn't considered that she could write even _more_ \--

But now that the thought has occurred to her, it is tantalizing.

“Jack Halloran, why do I get the feeling you just want to get your monopolizing claws into some of those smaller magazines?”

A smirk tugh at the corners of Jack’s lips. “Because we've known each other long enough that you can spot all of my tricks.”

Shaking her head, Mary sits back in her chair and sighs. The idea of her still with one hand on her keyboard, the other clinging to the movement -- now that it’s out there, she can't get it out of her head.

She had anticipated going back to her old life, before she was forced to sneak around her family’s backs and hide a major part of herself. However, old concerns plagued her anew. Would her life be any different now? Or would that same dissatisfied restlessness still linger, even worse now that she's gotten a taste of what she could be doing?

The thought of returning to a life without a cause is unbearable. Just think of it makes Mary squirm in discomfort, entire being chafing against the idea of being forced into a role of idleness that she has no interest in playing.

This is too much to think about. She can't make this decision alone.

She'll have to talk to Mila.

* * *

Mary has not yet experienced enough to call herself learned, but she'd far from admit that she is naive. She knows by now that things do not break slowly, falling apart piece by piece in a descent like the arc of a doomed meteor. When big things implode on themselves, they shatter all at once.

The downfall of Meredith Bly is no different.

* * *

 **CHARITY SHOW**  
**AND PICNIC**  
**RAISES FUNDS FOR DISADVANTAGED**

Upper Manhattan Society Comes Out in Droves

**OVER 1000 DOLLARS RAISED**

_Pictured: Mrs. Theodore Townsend, Mrs. F.G. Merrill, Mr. Robert A. Merran, Mr. Lawrence P. Browning, Ms. Annette R. Browning, Ms. Mary A. Merran, Mrs. Clarence Hershey_

* * *

"You're one of them, aren't you?" Mila says in a low voice, bitterness seething from every syllable. "A socialite. A fraud."

The paper is balanced on her knees, open to the front page. It isn’t _The American Journal_ \-- with the way Mila’s been scrounging for headlines, she turned to more and more obscure papers. Mary hadn’t even realized this picture, among the handful taken at the charity event last week, would make it into the paper. Still, there she is, in full view of the camera. Her face is unmistakable, and Mila’s thumb rests squarely over her printed breast.

"Mila --" Mary starts, but the girl cuts her off.

“So, how wealthy are you? Merran, he’s awful rich, isn’t he? He runs the paper.” A creeping comprehension dawns across Mila’s face. “He runs _The Journal_. That’s why we were always in print.”

“It isn’t like that,” Mary says in a low voice. Mila’s eyes flash, and her head shoots up as if she’s been struck. Her teeth bare in an ugly grimace.

"Oh really, it isn’t? You're just another one of those rich socialites, making us poor little working girls your pet project! You're in this for recognition, for the praise you'll win from at your fancy dinner parties. 'Look at Mary, the altruist, the philanthropist. So helpful. She was raised so well, wasn't she?' In your big, glamorous castle in the sky --"

"Mila!" There is a hardness in Mary's voice that hadn't been there before; but she is met with two eyes reinforced by steel, cold and unforgiving.

"You lied. You said you were on our side!"

"I am!" retorts Mary heatedly. "Who has been writing these articles? Who has been getting you on the front page, week after week? You, Mila! Your face, your story, _you!"_

"You're one of them, and now the strike is over, and you have no use for us anymore!" Mila hisses, venomous and furious. "What use is Meredith Bly without a strike to cover? Who are you, Mary, without your precious story?"

"The strikes are over, but you said it yourself. The fight isn't won! I still want to help, I still --"

"No." Mila rises, casting the paper away; black and white sheets flutter to the ground at her feet, but she pays them no heed. "We don't need your money, or your sympathy, or you writing about us for charity. You're going to get bored, and then you'll leave. Don't act like you won't."

"If that's what you think, you don't know me!"

"You said it yourself! You always tried so many things, started so much, then got bored halfway through and gave up! Do you think this will be any different, really? How foolish are you?"

The words sting. Mary draws back, startled, but Mila only raises her chin higher. She is utterly unrepentant, spine rod-straight and jaw set in a scowl. Steel gleams in her eyes as she raises a hand up at her side. _"’If I turn traitor to the cause I now pledge, let this hand wither from the arm I raise!’_ That is what we all swore when we chose to go on strike. You didn’t swear it; you weren’t there.” She shakes her head. “You may be naive, Mary, but I'm not. I can't afford to be."

For a long moment, Mary is silent. She says nothing; in return, Mila's mouth remains stubbornly closed. Their gazes can not tear away from each other, wounded brown versus furious blue.

"Does this mean," Mary says at last, and is shocked by how weak her voice sounds, "you aren't helping me anymore?"

"Yes," says Mila. "That is exactly what I mean."

She walks out of the room, and out of the villa, without looking back once. All Mary can do is watch her go.

* * *

An ache lingers in her chest, sharp and biting; it feels like a hand has reached past her ribs, seized hold of her heart, and is twisting it. It's hard to breathe; hard to think. Mary blinks past the unrelenting waves of her own shame and tries to make sense of it all.

She knows that she ought to leave before it gets dark. She should return home, to her parents and her life, putting this all behind her. There is nothing here for her anymore. The strikes are over, and she no longer has a partner to write with.

Without Mila, the cottage feels empty. She is no longer here, and there is a coldness that fills her absence. The ghost of Mila, however, lingers in the empty corners of the space they have shared. Mary can see her dancing across the floor; she can hear her footsteps, the low melody of her voice. Mila is here, and she’s not, but Mary does not want to leave behind the echoes that remain.

She lied to Mila, and this is her consequence. She should have been honest from the beginning. She knows that. If she had just told the truth, if she was open with Mila from the beginning --

Then Mila would never have gotten close to her. Mila would never have been able to trust her, and the name they have made for the reporter called Meredith Bly would never exist. Mila, as Mary sees her, would never exist. She would always be the girl with the red curls, Mary's faceless muse; instead of Mila, all flesh and blood and molten lava, vibrantly and defiantly alive.

Mary had her, and now Mila is gone. For just a short time, Mila had been real to her.

Can't that be enough? The thought of facing Mila again fills Mary with bitter dread. Now that her lies have been revealed, the other girl wants nothing to do with her. She's made that clear, and Mary would be smart to allow Mila to fade out of her life the way she has decided she wants to. It doesn't matter -- the strikes are over, and Mary's role as a reporter has been fulfilled. There is no future for Meredith Bly, not without Mila by her side.

Isn't enough to have been close to Mila, even if she is out of  reach now? Mary already got what she wanted... and used Mila to do it.

The reality of the situation hits her at once, sending her doubling forward. She used Mila. Mila, who had trusted her so eagerly, who had bared precious parts of her soul to her. The girl talked so much about feeling voiceless; it is clear that she was only searching for someone to listen. She thought she found that in Mary, and Mary had lied to her.

Having Mila once isn't enough. It will never be enough. Mary doesn't want tiny pieces of Mila; she doesn't want fragments, snippets of memory that will fade and dim with time until they finally crumple into dust. She doesn't want to be haunted by the thought of sunlight glinting off of red hair, or the way Mila's rough hands smoothed her skirt when she sat down. She wants -- needs -- these things to be real.

There is no way she can let what she has now go. This -- writing, Mila, getting to fulfill the dream she's had for so long -- is something worth fighting for. Mary cannot be satisfied with simply having had it.

If she can't have that, she at least needs to find Mila and apologize. Mary owes her that much.

Forgiveness is something she knows she has no right to hope for. Perhaps she shouldn't even try. Maybe seeking out Mila is selfish, but if there is one thing Mary has proved to herself in the past few months it is that she is very good at being selfish.


	4. chapter five

Rain pounds heavy upon the city, drenching everything unfortunate enough to be caught in its wrath. It's the sort of late-February rain, caught just between sleet and snow, which stings like fire upon bare skin and is sure to turn the streets to ice as soon as the temperature drops.

From her safety beneath the awning, Mary observes the drenched paving stones with detached interest. She can feel the chill in the air biting into her skin; her hair weighs heavy with captured raindrops, stray strands escaping their pins to caress the sides of her face. Even so, the storm seems very far away from her little corner of sanctuary, outside of union headquarters off of 43rd Street.

Jack hunches the shoulders of his too-large jacket, drawing into his own figure. Mary pulls her hat lower over her face, shifting in her mink coat. They've both dressed for the weather, but she still feels woefully out of place. Perhaps this is thanks to the two men in front of them, who are staring at Mary as if she is some new, just-discovered creature they have little interest in learning about.

“If you’re looking to strike a deal with Meredith Bly,” Jack says, “you'll have to go through _The American Journal.”_

Jack has a way of adapting to each person he talks to. Mary likes to watch him sometimes -- it's like studying an artist at work. He mirrors body language, reflects each expression back with a subtlety he doesn't seem capable of. He treads the fine line between amiable and professional, friend and boss, as if he was born walking it. Even his voice changes -- subtle inflections interject themselves depending on who he talks to, how he approaches them and what tack he wants to take. Without Jack’s social magnetism, he would never have gotten half as far as he has today; for that matter, neither would Mary.

These men are publishers of one of the city’s foremost union magazines, and Jack had made it clear how much of a big deal this is. The Union Bulletin is widely published, but they share one crucial trait with any other paper -- they’re constantly looking to expand their horizons. They’ve found a way to do that with Meredith Bly, who reports on the strikes in one of New York’s largest newspapers. Meredith Bly’s articles have brought their content into the public eye. It is only natural that they now want the reporter to write for them.

“That’s what we’ll work with,” Jack said. “They want to use you, and _The Journal_ can use _them.”_

His deal is an alliance, and it is a bold move. One look at the faces of the men in front of her tells Mary that Jack’s proposition was unexpected.

Both expressions betray surprise, wide eyed and struggling to comprehend. One man looks like he's considering the offer; the other is staunch against it. His eyes are narrowed, arms crossed and face set in a glower. If Jack is deterred by the unreceptive front, he doesn’t show it.

“Reporter Bly works for us alone. The name is established as the premiere mainstream reporter on these strikes --”

“Who no one has ever met,” interjects one of the men. “None of the shirtwaist girls recall ever having spoken to Bly. They talked to a lot of reporters, but no one who introduced himself by that name. None of the unions have coordinated with Bly. He has never appeared on the frontlines. He’s a name without a face.”

It’s true -- Mary never visited the front lines. It was Mila who gave her firsthand accounts, who interviewed fellow strikers and brought back their words for Mary to turn to print. If Mary was the voice behind their alias, Mila was the face. Mila was half of Meredith Bly. (Mila, who is gone.)

“And yet, they're quoted in Bly’s articles. Bly is on the front lines, working with these strikers, and will continue to be so for as long as there is still a struggle for worker’s rights in New York City. The articles are well-written, in-depth, engaging, informative. Meredith Bly could be writing for you.”

“We'd get to meet him?”

“Dealings with Bly will all be conducted through myself and _The American Journal._ Bly is a very private reporter. Direct contact will be limited, for anonymity’s sake.”

Perhaps his answer is suspicious, because both men tense up. The aggressive one who has been leading their side of the conversation glowers at Jack, narrowing his eyes.

“And what would you get in return for lending us your precious reporter?”

There's the million dollar question. Jack’s lips turn up in a smile, smooth as a snake’s skin and twice as sly.

“Your magazine becomes an affiliate of _The American Journal.”_

The silence that follows is sharp, tense enough to cut clean with a knife. Jack remains undeterred. He’s played his cards for this moment, and knows just which moves he wants to make. (Jack, Mary often thinks, would strike a dangerous figure in one of her father’s gentleman lounges, a card shark amidst a sea of millionaire minnows.)

“We help you, you help us,” he goes on. “We lend you our reporters, provide you an audience outside your current sphere. In return, you owe us two things.”

“And what are those?”

Jack smiles, thin and affable. “Your loyalty, primarily. The twenty-five dollars a week is just a matter of course.”

The surly unionizer narrows his eyes. “So you take our independence, and we take your reporter?”

“You borrow our reporter, yes.” Jack cocks his head. “If you'll take my deal.”

The men stare each other down for a long moment, neither willing to break first. Jack’s eyes glisten like solid coal. There is a certain smugness to them, amusement that Mary has come to know well. Jack Halloran only looks like that when he knows he's getting his way.

The unionizer turns his head, breaking eye contact first. “You have a deal,” he says.

After that, the rest of the deal happens quickly. Contact information is exchanged, a date for The Union Bulletin to receive their first Meredith Bly article is set, and Jack walks away with his pockets twenty-five dollars heavier.

Only after all is done, with Jack by her side and an umbrella sheltering them both from the storm around them, does the reporter herself finally speak. “I didn't know I was such highly coveted goods.”

“You’re learning, Boss,” Jack chuckles. “People who want to be written about will pay a fortune to someone who can do it.”

Mary considers this for a moment, pensive as she frowns up at the overcast sky. “The price of fame,” she mutters after a moment.

Jack hooks his arm in hers, every inch the proper gentleman. “Enjoy it,” he says. “You'll be worth even more to the next publication who wants a piece of you.”

Together, she and Jack stroll down the street towards their next deal. 

* * *

Being used as a poker chip for Jack Halloran doesn’t bother her so much as the fact that she’s there while Mila is not.

Meredith Bly was Mary’s conception, but Mila became an integral part of the identity. Without Mila, there is no way Mary could have published her articles. Without Mila, there would be no Meredith Bly.

Mary’s betrayal hurt both of them. The gaping wound Mila’s absence has gouged into Mary refuses to be filled, no matter how she tries to occupy her mind with other things. She cannot forget Mila. She cannot forgive herself for hurting her. She cannot give up on her.

She should not be here. Now that she is, however, she cannot stand the idea of leaving. The very thought of turning around and walking away when she's come this far makes her nauseous. The towering Asch building looms above her head, a dizzying assembly of window after window stacked high into the sky. She does not have a plan, and she knows better than to think one would help her. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.

She knows only two things for certain: she needs to talk to Mila again, and the workers’ days end at four-thirty.

It is a quarter to five when the doors open for the first time. Women pour through the exit; short and lanky, slender and stout, a sea of different faces, and none of them familiar to Mary. The workers are busy chatting amongst each other, rifling through their purses, or buttoning their coats. They pay no attention to the lone woman standing beneath a lamppost.

Her tongue feels frozen in her mouth. Her heart thrums in her chest, a beat for each stranger who files past. When Mary draws in a breath, the wintery gust chills her lungs, and she imagines Mila gasping in the same air.

What will she say when she sees her? What will she do? How will Mila react upon finding her waiting? What will the sting of rejection feel like all over again? Will Mila yell, will she curse her, will she do nothing more than turn and walk away? What will Mary do then? What if --

A flash of red slips past her, and the chaotic tumult of Mary’s mind bursts into clarity.

A threadbare black coat is pulled tight around her shoulders. She wears a dark blue hat, contrasting the stark color of her hair. Her face looks even paler against the snowflakes which flutter from the ash-colored sky; it’s only color is the small flush that spreads across her nose and cheeks. She has her attention buried in her purse, rifling through it as if trying to reorganize its contents. She breezes by Mary without a glance, without a flicker of recognition.

Mary doesn’t know what drives her -- instinct, adrenaline, or insanity -- but before she can second guess herself she is sprinting down the sidewalk after the quickly vanishing figure. Mila is a fast walker, and makes it to the street corner before Mary can catch up, but Mary has longer legs and determination on her side.

“Hang on!” she calls out, and Mila’s head turns to glance over her shoulder.

Mary sees the moment she realizes who she's looking at. Her eyes widen; her jaw drops. The relaxed set of her shoulders slowly goes tense as she turns the rest of her body to face her.

“Why are you here?” Mila asks -- so quietly that Mary, standing just a few yards away, can barely hear.

She's still breathing hard from her sprint, and the icy winter air burns her lungs, but Mary forces herself to regain her composure. “Please. I need to talk to you.”

Mila’s face darkens. “I have nothing to say to you,” she replies, and moves to turn away -- only for the clack of Mary’s feet against the sidewalk to sound behind her. She freezes again, and when she looks back there’s new agitation in her face. “I don't want you here. Leave me alone.”

“Please, let me explain.”

“There's nothing to explain.”

“Mila --”

The other girl turns back to the street, watching the dizzying stream of automobiles zip around the corner. She can't cross now without the risk of getting mowed down. She has to wait, and as long as she's here, she's stuck with Mary. Mila’s dark brows furrow, and she takes a step towards the curb before thinking better of it. She's frustrated, not foolish.

Mary takes another step towards her, the steel bottoms of her boots clacking against the sidewalk. Mila flinches at the sound, and Mary can't help feeling oafish. “I didn't want to lie to you. It hurt me. There were so many times when I wanted to tell the truth, but just couldn't.”

“Why?” demands Mila, not turning around. “Why couldn't you?”

“Because I knew you'd react badly! You wouldn't want to help me, or worse --”

“Would me not helping you be the worst thing in the world? You thought by lying to me you could get me on your side?” Mila barks out a laugh, guttural over the sound of passing automobiles. “You betrayed my trust. Why do you deserve to explain yourself?”

Mary feels desperate, halfway between tears and fury. “How can you just walk away from what we've done together?”

“Meredith Bly is a lie,” Mila spits back. “And so are you.”

“I was honest with you about so many things --”

“And I was honest about everything!”

Mila reels around, hair flaring about her like a flaming halo. Her eyes are alight, lips twisted in an infuriated snarl. Mary feels a flash of astonishment, something very close to fear. She's seen Mila angry before, but to have that rage directed at her is a whole other experience.

“I never told you a lie! I never held my tongue! I was candid, I revealed myself to you, and you took my words and twisted them for yourself! You lied about who you were to me! You were never honest at all!”

“It was real, Mila,” Mary gasps. “My own feelings were real! If you could just understand --”

“Understand.”

Mila’s echo is drops like a dull stone onto Mary’s head. Something about it steals her breath. Maybe it is the hard tone of voice, one she has never heard pass Mila’s lips before. Maybe it is simply the look in Mila’s eyes, glinting and sharp as cut steel.

“You want me,” she enunciates slowly, “to understand you.”

Mary swallows, and finds it in her to nod.

Standing beneath the streetlight, the glow casts a golden sheen onto Mila’s scarlet curls. They dance like fire with each movement. Mary watches snowflakes flutter between them, landing on Mila’s cheeks and melting in an instant. Mary, out of the light and out of reach of Mila, can only watch from the colder shadows as a smile spreads across Mila’s face.

A huff of breath passes her lips. It is not a laugh. Her grin holds no joy, no light, nothing resembling Mila’s usual exuberance. She wears the expression of a predator narrowing in on its prey. Mary can barely breathe; she feels like a minnow caught in the sights of a shark.

“Understand me,” is all Mila says, and she takes a step closer. One arm extends; it takes Mary a second too long to realize she’s offering her hand towards her. “I want you to understand something. Come with me.”

“I'm not sure --” Mary begins, but her words die in her throat. Mila’s gaze is sharp as daggers, piercing her. She will not get another chance. She can take Mila’s hand, or never see her again.

Mary slips her gloves fingers between Mila’s own, and the smile fades from the other girl’s face.

“If you want to understand anyone,” she says, “you have to know where they come from.”

* * *

 She has lived in Manhattan all her life, but Mary has never really realized how big the city is -- how many places she has yet to explore -- until she is being led by the arm through crowded, filthy streets. Mila’s grip is tight, her pace quick to counter Mary’s unsure steps. She dodges street vendors, carriages, wagons and wheelbarrows. The icy chill that laces the air seems to affect her no more than the grimy little children rushing around her knees, and she keeps her eyes trained straight ahead as they pass down a street filled with shops and similar looking buildings that tower overhead.

Mary has never been to the slums of New York before. Her life on the Upper East side is a stark contrast to the tenement district that Mila calls home. Finding herself immersed in it now, it has never been more apparent that she is a foreigner, a fish out of water.

When Mila at last stops under the awning of a large brick building, Mary heaves a sigh of relief. A heavy door is tugged open by Mila’s deceptively strong arms, and they both slip out of the cold into a dim hallway.

There is no heat in the tenements. A lone radiator stands at the end of the hallway, but the only refuge from the outside chill is that snow no longer falls onto their heads. A shiver rushes down Mary’s spine, causing Mila to glance at her sideways before she starts up the first flight of stairs.

“Come on,” she says. “It's up a few floors, but we'll get there.”

Mary doesn't want to follow. This place feels sinister, hostile, unwelcoming. She hesitates, and it's just long enough for another person to careen out of an open doorway at the end of the hallway.

He seems to emerge from the basement; a ball caught in midair precedes his arrival, slamming against the wall a second before the boy knocks the door shut behind him. He chases the ball halfway down the hallway before he catches up to it, a square kick sending it in the opposite direction.

Mary is so busy staring that she doesn't notice Mila tense beside her until a sharp exclamation splits the air.

_“Abe, keyn flisndik in di kholveyz!”_

The boy screeches to a stop, nearly running into the end of the hallway. His ball bounces after him, hitting the wall with a thud. Black hair clings to his forehead, not hiding the wince on his face as he bends down to pick it up. Then he turns to the two girls, and -- as if to deliberately do what he was just told not to -- sprints back towards them.

 _“Ikh visn, nebekhdik,”_ the boy pants out, drawing to a stop in the middle of the hallway. A beat passes before he looks up, dark eyes fixing on Mary before they narrow with bewilderment. His freckled nose scrunches as he pulls himself upright. Mary’s shoulders go stiff under the boy’s scrutinizing glare.

“Who’s this?” he says after a few seconds -- in English, much to Mary’s relief. Mila’s lips press together in what is not a smile. Her grip on Mary’s elbow tightens.

“This is my friend, Mary. She's coming in for dinner tonight. _Tate_ doesn't know yet, but he also doesn't know you're playing in the basement, does he?”

The boy blinks up at her, drawing his ball closer to his chest. After a few seconds he smiles, small and knowing. Mila mirrors the expression on her own face, and at once the resemblance between the two strikes her.

“Your brother,” she blurts out, and Mila eyes her sideways.

“You're quick.” Her smirk widens, and Abraham’s face breaks into a boyish grin. Mary feels a bit flustered; she adjusts her purse in her hands, fighting to swallow back her own discomfort, as Mila gives a tug to her elbow. “Come on. You've got a lot to learn.”

Mila leads her up a narrow staircase that leaves Mary feeling more claustrophobic with each step. Her instincts urge her to turn around; but with Mila leading her up and her brother, Abraham, walking behind her, there is no chance. She doubts Mila would let her go if she tried. The walls are water-stained and molding; the stairs creak precariously under their weight. By the time Mary finally reaches the landing, she exhales a breath she didn't realize she was holding.

“Don't faint on me now,” Mila mutters. “We’re almost there.”

They travel down a long corridor, past dozens of identical wooden doors. Some hang wide open, exposing the crowded apartments within. Women work at their sinks and kitchen tables; messy little children peer around doorframes as they walk past. One small boy rushes out and leaps at Mila’s skirts, catching her around the waist. She laughs and mutters something to him in Yiddish, cupping his cheek as he pulls away. Mary gapes as the child scampers back into his apartment to join a cluster of other children huddled around what looks like a heater. She nearly trips over a wash basin in the middle of the hallway, filled with soaking laundry. Only Mila’s tight grip keeps her from falling. Abraham snickers behind her, but Mila just rolls her eyes and tugs her along.

The door to Mila’s apartment is closed, but she raps twice on the wood before pushing it open. For the briefest second, her hand runs over what appears to be a narrow doorway decoration, engraved with intricate markings; she brings her fingertips to her lips before stepping into the house. Mary follows after her, feeling bewildered and more than a little out of her depth.

The inside of Mila’s apartment is cramped and warm, crowded with furniture and trinkets. One room is a combined living room and kitchen, with a sofa on one end and a stove at the other. One open doorway leads to what looks like a bedroom, while another door on the far side of the room is shut. There are no windows. The stagnant air leaves Mary feeling a bit dizzy, and catching sight of the figure standing at the stove doesn't help.

“Mama,” Mila says, _“ikh gebrakht a gast heym. Dos iz Mary.”_

She’s not sure what she expected Mila’s mother to be like. A part of her expected an older Mila, all firebrand and bold; another part assumed Mila's mother would not be like her at all (there can only be one Mila, after all). Now, faced with her in the flesh, Mary is not sure what to think.

The woman in front of her is short and ruddy, made up of bones that do not seem to want to stay confined by her skin. Her hair is covered by what looks like a wig, dark brown in color, pulled into a bob at the back of her head. She wears a shawl wrapped around her, and her dark skirt sweeps the ground.

Mila’s mother turns, and Mary’s breath catches in her throat.

The scar that mars the older woman’s face is not yet old enough to have faded to a less-jarring pink. Instead it is still purple, garish and awful, aging the woman by decades instead of years. It starts just above her eyebrow, misses her eye, but drags all the way down her cheek and jaw. The stitching must have been clumsy; the skin has not healed right, leaving it mottled in places and smooth in others. Mary is seized by the powerful urge to vomit.

She catches sight of Mila’s eyes, locked on her. She looks hard, already disapproving, prepared for whatever Mary might say.

The woman turns towards Mary fully, and Mary forces herself to focus past the scar. She has dark brown eyes, like her son and unlike her daughter. Her brows are thicker than her childrens’, her chin more square. She must have been pretty once, but now she just looks old.

She does, however, have kind eyes.

 _“Bagrisung!”_ the woman exclaims, drying her hands on her skirt before holding them out to Mary. _“Vos a sheyne meydl. Mila, deyn fraynd iz sheyn.”_

Mary has no clue what she's saying, but she recognizes a compliment when she hears one. “Thank you,” she says, placing her hands over the woman’s and smiling in a way she hopes conceals her nervousness. “You have a lovely home.”

 _“Zi zagt aundzer heym iz sheyne.”_ Mila sounds wry. _“Mama, zi tut nisht redn eydish. Zi iz a goy.”_

A flash of curiosity reflects in the woman’s eyes. She appraises Mary again, like a grocer inspecting their product, before saying something else to her daughter. Mila shakes her head, smirking, as she places her purse on the table.

 _“Di shlogn,”_ she replies. When she catches Mary’s curious gaze, her smile widens. “She wants to know where I met you. Most of the girls at the factory would be able to understand us.”

“I don't know Yiddish,” Mary says, knowing she's reiterating a moot point. Mila just shakes her head.

She places her purse down on the table and begins to rifle through it. The soup on the stove is starting to bubble, so Mrs. Radhofsky rushes back to it. Abraham has retreated to the sofa, his ball under one arm and a book under the other. Mary is left standing in the middle of the kitchen, feeling like she's out in the cold.

“How,” she says after a moment, catching Mila’s attention again, “how did -- she --”

“Workplace accident.” Mila no longer looks amused. Her expression is closed, unreadable. “There were no unions at her factory. Now she can't stand to go back to work, and no one will hire her anyway. It's just _Tate_ and me keeping us afloat.”

“Your brother?” Mary asks. Mila shakes her head.

“Abe’s twelve. He goes to school, and works hard at it. _Tate_ wants him to become a rabbi.”

“I want to be a fireman,” pipes up Abraham from the couch. “But _Tate_ doesn't know that.”

“He'd disown you if you did that,” Mila retorts. Abraham just rolls his eyes at her. She turns her back on her brother, huffing in disdain. “What on earth gets into that kid? All that _chutzpah!_ I’m sure I was never like that at his age.” As Mary hides her smirk, Mila turns to her mother. _“Mama, iz ikh vi mazldik vi a Avram?”_

 _“Avram iz a gut eyngl,”_ her mother replies, not glancing at her. _“Ir zenen erger.”_

Abraham lets out a cackle of a laugh. Mary rounds on him with a glare, hair flaring around her face like fire. She doesn't have to say a word for Abraham to quickly become engrossed in his book once more. Mary bites down on her lip to hide her grin.

Mila takes over, directing the kitchen like the producer of a play. She puts her brother to work hauling out the trash, while Mary is given the job of setting the little table for five. Mila begins helping her mother with dinner, working alongside her with an effortless tandem that Mary can't help but admire. She's never found such rapport with her own moftatther. They've never been able to work in sync, like two limbs of the same animal. When Mila mutters something in Yiddish to her mother, who chuckles, something twists in Mary’s stomach.

She's startled by the door opening again. The fork in her hand nearly clatters to the ground; she's quick enough to catch it. When she turns around, a man is standing in the doorway, looking at her.

The stranger who can only be Mila’s father is clean-shaven and thin, his long limbs not matching his short stature. He wears a mild expression on his lined face; his eyes are a fuller shade of blue than his daughter’s. What makes him most recognizable as the Radhofsky patriarch, however, is the thinning hair atop his head, more auburn than red at this point. At one point, Mary is sure, it must have been brilliant.

 _“Meyn takhter,_ you have invited guests,” the man observes in a tame voice, “only you have forgotten to tell me.”

Mild crosses around the kitchen table, placing a quick kiss on her father’s cheek.“Only because I knew you would make a fuss, _Tate._ This is my friend, Mary. I asked her to join us for dinner tonight.”

“You were right about that,” the man says in regards to his daughter’s first comment. His hand brushes over Mila’s shoulder briefly, just enough for her to feel it, before he turns to Mary with a smile on his face. “You must understand, Miss Mary, our Myriam is a young woman with many opinions, who loves nothing more than making decisions for herself.”

“Only because I was raised by a man with his own very strong opinions,” Mila returns. When her father looks at her, she bows her head, which does nothing to hide the smile on her lips. He sighs in turn, but when he turns back to Mary he does not look offended. Instead there is something tolerant in his eyes, something Mary would be quick to call proud. She's seen it enough times in her own father’s eyes to know.

“It's very nice to meet you, sir,” Mary says, holding out her hand. Mila’s father takes it, and plants a kiss on the back of her knuckles. When he looks up at her, there's a gleam in his eyes.

“It's always a treat to have guests,” he says. Over his shoulder, Mila grins.

Dinner continues to bustle on. Mila and her mother finish the food, while Mr. Radhofsky takes over the task of serving it. Abraham returns and slides into his seat at the table. The rest of the party, save Mr. Radhofsky, is quick to follow, and dinner is served out quickly.

The soup is rich and spicy, dancing on Mary’s tongue. She's eaten at many of the finest restaurants in Manhattan, but she doubts she's tasted anything like this. It is rich and delicious; she is left scraping at the bowl for the last drops. It doesn't escape Mila’s mother’s notice, and the woman glows with pride.

Mary helps Mila clean the table. Conversation, which had been a mix of Yiddish and English throughout dinner, begins to pick up again once the girls rise from their seats. Mary half-listens, focused on balancing the plates in her hands without dropping them on the ground.

Even with her determination, one slips. It tumbles off of the pile in Mary’s hands and comes close to crashing to the floor -- only to be snatched from the air by a quick hand. When Mila looks up at her, eyebrows raised, Mary flushes.

“I'm sorry.”

“We don't have many of these, you know,” she says, voice lowered for the benefit of her family. This conversation is for the two of them alone. “You might be used to eating off silver and gold where you come from --”

“That's not true,” Mary interjects sharply. “Don't say that.”

To her credit, Mila lets the subject drop. A shadow passes over her face as she sets the bowls down in the sink. The night sky is black, but New York is never dark. The lights from the tenement across from them shine in Mila’s face as she gazed through the window, eyes fixed on something Mary is not witness to. When she opens her mouth, Mary can see the words dancing at the tip of her tongue; just as quickly, she closes it again. Her hands begin to work at the bowls. Mary passes her one after the other, and Mila scrubs each one spotless.

It is a few moments before she manages to speak again. “Your father... he calls you Myriam.”

”That’s because Myriam is my name,” Mila replies, not turning her eyes from her work. “I was named after my grandmother, when she was still alive. To everyone in our village, she was Myriam. I was Kleyn Myriam — Little Myriam — for awhile, before I became Myla, and then turned into Mila. Now I‘m Mila through and through.” She flourishes her hands in a tiny actress’s pose that tugs a smile at Mary’s lips. “Only _Tate_  calls me Myriam anymore. I think it’s because I remind him of Bubbie.”

Mary swallows, at once nervous again. Mila’s eyes remain trained down on her plate. “I’m all he has left of her. She died just before the pogroms got bad, and we had to leave. He lost his mother and his home, in one blow. It was not easy for him. For any of us.”

She opens her mouth, but words stall on her tongue. It is a relief. She would doubtless say something awful, like I’m sorry. Of all the things Mila could forgive her for, Mary knows she could not forgive that.

After a few moments, the silent tension breaks Mila down. She forces a deep breath into her lungs, and when she speaks again, her tone is light. “Dinner was good?”

“Oh. Yes. It was -- it was lovely.”

“And the conversation was to your satisfaction?”

Mary thinks of Abraham’s jokes, the easy smiles of Mila’s mother and the gentle teasing of her father. A smile floats to her lips. “I couldn't have asked for better.”

“A lot of good happens on that kitchen table, you know. Abe sleeps there sometimes.”

Mary pauses, blinks at her. Mila does not look up from her dishes. “In the summer. The bedroom belongs to _Tate_ and _Mama,_ so Abe and I sleep out here. I take the couch, unless he needs it for a good reason. He beds down on the floor, or the table when it's warm out. We used to sneak out to the fire escape on the hotter days of summer and sleep out there, but we're both too big for that now.” Mila shifts, frowning down at the water streaming onto her hands. “There's something about sleeping miles above the city that can't compare to anything else in the world.”

Another minute passes in silence. Mila’s words hang between them, like a lit stick of dynamite waiting to explode. Mary thinks of her large room back at home, with her desk and wardrobes and canopy bed. Her stomach twists again, choked by something bitter. She catches sight of Mila staring at her from the corner of her eye. When she goes still, Mila finally turns to look up at her. Her face is solemn, expectant, and all too weary.

“You see, now. You see what I'm talking about.”

“I think…” Mary starts, then trails off. She's not sure what she's seen tonight.

“You wanted to understand the strikers. How we live, why we feel what we feel. This is what you need to understand: we come from very little, but our roots our strong. Many of us have less than this -- my family is lucky. We have a dinner table, we have food to share. Our very lives rely on our the work we do each day.”

Mary looks at her and swallows. She cannot tear her eyes away from Mila’s brilliant blue gaze.

“And still we fight. Why? Because we believe there is a better life than this, and we deserve it. Our parents deserve it. Our children deserve it.” Her lips purse. She swallows hard, takes a deep breath. “I fight for my mother, and I fight for me. I fight for those who cannot fight for themselves.”

The faucet shuts off. The silence rings louder than Mila’s words ever could. When she tears her eyes away, Mary feels as if all the wind has been knocked from her lungs.

“Ask yourself what you're fighting for, Mary.”

Mila turns back to her family. Mary is left gaping after her, astonished, feeling more out of place than ever.


	5. chapter six

Two days later, Mary finds herself once more standing on the street corner outside of the Asch building.

At least it's not snowing anymore. The deluge from a few days prior has faded away into brown slush that slickers the sidewalks and squelches beneath Mary’s heels as she shuffles her feet. She pulls her coat tighter around her narrow frame, exhales a puff of icy air, and watches the door. Returning to Mila humbled is one thing; humbled and freezing is another.

When the door finally opens, she watches the familiar stream of women pour out. She waits, waits, waits, until she catches sight of a head of red curls bent over her purse.

“Mila!”

The girl stops in her tracks, looking up. Mary is greeted by tired blue eyes, but energy floods back into them as they widen in surprise. That Mila is startled to see her here doesn't say much to Mary’s credit, but she'll take what she can get.

“You came,” says Mila, taking a step closer. Mary bows her head, moving forward until she is able to grip the other girl by the elbow. Mila starts but does not pull away, not even when Mary’s intense eyes lock onto her own.

"Mila. I'm fighting for the ones who can't fight for themselves too. The ones who need it." Mary swallows hard, steeling herself. Now, more than ever, she must be honest. "I'm fighting for you. And I'm fighting for me."

Something in Mila’s face falters. She looks startled, hesitant, almost afraid -- as if she’d like nothing more than to blow Mary’s words back in her face like smoke. To pull away, turn her back, and never see her again. To leave her behind. That is impossible now, however, with Mary’s truths hanging between them, binding them like a rope around both their waists. The idea of Mary fighting for her seems to terrify her, but running from it terrifies her more -- perhaps because she knows she can't.

"I don't know if my motives are correct. I don't know if I can change things. I don't know if I deserve your forgiveness. I only know that I'm not going to stop trying, and that I _care_. I'm always going to care, I don't know how to _stop_ caring. I care about _you_ , and I --”

Mary cuts herself off, wide eyed. Her flood of words tapers away just as abruptly as it began, leaving nothing but silence in her wake. She swallows hard, and sees Mila do the same. This close, she can count the freckles on the other girl’s cheeks. She can trace the circles under her eyes. She can see where she gnawed on her lower lip until it bled.

Being this close to Mila is terrifying, but everything about it feels right. This is the way it's meant to be.

(Does Mila feel it too?)

Mary takes a deep breath, and forces herself to finish “I believe we can make a difference. I'm going to be honest with you, from here on out. If you still want to try, then please. Try with me."

Mila looks stunned by her words. She has every right to be. Mary knows it, and doesn't begrudge her for it; but she still needs an answer. She needs to know. Otherwise, right here, in this very moment, something will die: her alias, her dreams of being a reporter, but worst of all, the friendship she built with Mila.

The thought is a knife twisting in her chest, but Mary needs to know. She holds her breath and waits.

She sees the light flicker back into Mila’s eyes, like a match striking in a darkened room. One second, astonishment lines Mila’s face; then next, it is replaced by warmth.

That is all the answer Mary needs.

Mila’s hand closes over hers and squeezes. Her eyes crinkle at the corners, making her look years younger. "Well, I figure that's good a reason as any. You'd be a little useless without me, huh?"  
  
Mary grins, broad and bright as the relief swelling in her chest. "You have no idea,” she huffs, and can't help laughing.

Everything is going to be alright. That's a miracle in itself.

* * *

 When writing begins again, Mary can hardly believe her luck. Words seem to flow out of her with more ease than ever. Maybe she has new inspiration; maybe it’s Mila’s presence returned to her side. Whatever the cause, her articles for Jack turn from weekly to every couple of days.

Mila is still heavily involved in the union, so she has news about all the latest strikes happening throughout the country. It helps that she’s an avid reader of all the magazines Meredith Bly is now writing for.

“Writing for _Schribner’s, and Kolman’s! The Union Review!_ _Oy!”_ Mila is almost bouncing as she takes in the stacks of magazines piled upon the cabin’s long table. “We’ll be regular celebrities!”

“Hardly,” Mary snorts, but she cannot bite back her smile as Mila buries her nose in the closest book. Her friend’s eyes are shining, and her grin could illuminate all of Manhattan. Something about it makes Mary feel like she's watching a shooting star, a meteor shower, or some other impossibly beautiful miracle of nature that is at once out of reach yet impossible to look away from. She forces herself to turn back to her writing, focusing on the tap of her fingers against the typewriter keys instead of Mila’s pink lips and pearly grin. “You know, if you start bouncing, I'm going to decide you must be half bunny-rabbit. It would explain some things.”

“Things like what?” Mila sounds half-delighted, half-affronted. Mary fights off a grin.

“You have big ears and you really like fruit, just like a rabbit.”

“Bunnies like _carrots_ ,” Mila informs her officiously, “and I can't stand carrots. Your logic’s awful flawed, Miss Mary.”

“They can like fruit too.”

“You can’t give a grape to a bunny! Grapes are tiny, he would choke!”

“I don’t think so,” replies Mary, turning back to her writing. She relishes Mila’s huff, equal parts laughter and frustration. No matter how distant Mila might feel to her at times, how far out of reach -- as long as she can generate a response like that, it’s all alright.

* * *

_I worry about you, Mary._

No one dares say this to her outright, but she sees it just the same. It is visible in the knit of her father’s brow whenever she slips into the house at sundown, one glove on, hat askew on her head. It is visible in the way her mother purses her lips, studies her like a puzzle far beyond her capacity to figure out, whenever Mary announces she’s going out for a while.

”Are you headed up to the Colony Club?” her mother asks one day, voice almost hopeful. Mary is not; but she forces a smile, and manages to nod anyways.

”I might stop by in an hour or so!”

She goes many places, as far as her parents knows. To the cinema; to the park; to play croquet or swim; to hear the bands playing at the symphony. She’s never spent so much time with “her friends” in her life, and she can’t decide whether her parents are assured by her newfound sociability or concerned by it.

She knows that they suspect something -- they are simply not concerned enough, too busy with their own lives to interfere. They could not suspect that Mary spends much of her time on the very edge of their property, holed up in the tiny garden cottage as spring brings it into bloom.

“Mary, darling,” her mother presses her one day, serious face etched with earnesty. “You haven’t been flirting with any gentlemen, have you?”

Mary blinks, startled. This idea never even occurred to her. Now, with her mother looking as if she’s hoping for a certain answer (though Mary is not sure what this answer would be) she feels blindsided.

“No, of course not,” she replies, and sees her mother’s face fall.

(Mary’s disinterest in romance has been a source of consternation to her mother from an early age. Her mother seems to believe a young woman should be naturally flirtatious, past a protective veil of modesty. Mary doesn’t see the point.)

She’s not sure what her parents want from her. Certain as she is that they would not disapprove of what she’s doing, she is unwilling to tell them. In many ways, it still feels like a betrayal to her father -- and there is something about the world she and Mila have built, just the two of them and the alias they hide under, that she does not want anyone else to see into. It is private, just for the two of them. _For now,_ she thinks. Mila will be her secret for just a little while longer.

Occasionally they take days off. They can wile away hours in the city together, they find, without being bored for a second. They go for walks along Fifth Avenue, putting aside the knowledge of whether they can or cannot afford the elegant dresses in the shop windows, and giggle over each one. Mila takes her to her favorite parks, shows off the place where she likes to sit and watch ships pull into the harbor on sunny days. Mary, in turn, takes her to her favorite cafes for lunch.

These days are infrequent, but all the more treasured for their rarity. Mila has to work, Mary has to write -- but a few times a month there is a day of perfect balance, where they each find themselves free and able to indulge their whimsical desires for a few hours. Winter thaws into spring, and Mary treasures every day she spends with Mila; but their days out are most precious to her.

It is on one of these illustrious, all-too-rare free days that Mila first suggests something fantastic. Over dishes of ice cream in Mary’s favorite cafe, she catches Mary’s eye with an inspired grin. “We ought to go to Coney Island!”

Mary blinks; her nose crinkles. She cannot hide her surprise. “Where did this idea come from?”

“Same place all my ideas come from,” Mila replies, leaning forward. “It’ll be a ball! You’ve been before, haven’t you?”

Mary muses over her spoonful of ice cream before replying. “Coney Island. With the bearded ladies, and the elephants? No, I have never been to Coney Island before.”

If anything, this only makes Mila more excited. she pounds on the table with her small hand. “Then you’ve got to go!”

Mary blinks at her, eyebrows slowly creeping up. She doesn’t mean to be underwhelmed; she’s just surprised by Mika’s enthusiasm for the idea. She knows that in Mila’s free time (that is, whenever she’s not working, with her family, with the union, or with Mary) she enjoys going to the theatre or to watch boats in the harbor. She’s heard Mila mention Coney Island before, but only in passing. Mary, whose family tended to stray away from “the entertainments of the masses” in favor of a quiet vacation on their island or a yachting voyage, has never visited Coney Island before, and the idea has never crossed her mind.

Not until now. Not until Mila.

“The idea hardly sweeps me off my feet,” she confesses, unwilling to lie to her friend. Just as she suspected, this only seems to give Mila the incentive she needs. Her eyes narrow, locking on to Mary like a dog whose just had a steak bone dangled in front of its face.

“So you’re truly telling me you have no desire to see bearded ladies or elephants? To see _anything_ fantastic?”

“Mila, dear, if I want to see a bearded lady, I need only to look at myself in the morning, before I’ve washed my face and brushed my teeth. There’s a sight fit to fill a thousand freak shows.”

“You sell yourself short.” Mila leans forward on her elbows, grin creeping across her face. “We’ll have one of the best days of your life. I promise you that,” she declares, with so much certainty that it is impossible not to believe her. “Put your trust in me, Mary. I won’t let you down.”

Perhaps Mary really is in over her head, because when Mila smiles at her like that, she finds herself helpless to say no.

So, that Sunday, she and Mila board the ferry to Coney Island.

Mary keeps her eye on the city for as long as she can, watching it vanish behind her. She’s been out of Manhattan before, of course. This is hardly new to her. She does not feel a stutter in her pulse  as she watches the city line stretch wider and wider, until she can see the outlines of buildings silhouetted against a clear blue sky. It is a beautiful spring day; sun shines down upon them, warming their bare arms and faces. Mila tilts her head back as if she craves as much of the sun as possible. Mary grins when the light’s reflection makes her red hair dance like fire.

By the time they’re halfway across, Mila has moved to the rail, and eagerly peers into the water for a sight of something. She chatters on about mermaids and dolphins and sea monsters, all things you would never find off the coast of New York. Mary doesn’t have the heart to let her down; not when Mila is so enthusiastic.

Her energy is contagious. By the time they dock, Mary’s own heart is beating like a hammer; she finds she cannot wait to set foot on shore. Already she can hear loud music and screaming drifting from the gates of Coney Island. A Ferris wheel is visible from the water, towering high in the air; Mary can only imagine that the passengers clustered on the incoming ferry’s decks must look like ants to the people up there. The beaches are crowded with hundreds of people, packed so densely together they there hardly looks like there’s room to breathe. They splash about in the water, gay and immodest. Delighted shrieks are audible even over the ferry’s bellowing foghorn.

“We’re here,” Mila announces breathlessly. Her hand locks around Mary’s own. “We’re here!”

“We are!” Mary lays a hand over Mika’s and grips it tight. Her heart feels light, and her head even lighter. This seems like a place where the impossible can happen, and being here with Mila is the perfect way to begin.

Their hands remain laced as they step off the ferry. Mary takes her first steps on Coney Island with Mila’s long fingers intertwined with her own.

“I’m very sure that I don’t want to do this,” Mary says.

Mila spins around to face her, already knee-deep in the water. She doesn’t have a bathing suit; her skirts are tied up scandalously high to keep them out of the surf. She seems unperturbed by the amount of skin she’s showing.

“What are you talking about?” She calls, kicking up a splash of water. Mary shrinks back. “Come in!”

She shuffles her bare feet on the sand, feeling water lap against her toes. “I don’t have a bathing suit!”

Mila scoffs. “Neither do I! We don’t need them!”

“Mila, I _can’t_ —“  
  
“Swim?” Mila looks delighted. Furious, Mary’s face floods with heat, and she takes another defiant step into the water.  
  
“Not like this, I’ve never — never in the ocean. I don’t know what’s in there, there are so many _people_ —“  
  
“They’re not going to bite you!”  
  
“Bite me?” Mary looks even more alarmed than before.  
  
With a huff, Mila seizes her hands and grips them tight, taking a step backwards into the ocean. “It’s alright,” she swears, keeping her eyes locked with Mary. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ve done this before, and I’m a strong swimmer.” She grins. “If you need a lifebelt, you can use me!”

Mary eyes her. “I don’t think you’d keep me afloat,” she says, but dutifully ties up her own skirts.

She wades in after Mila, painfully conscious of the strangers roughhousing around her. She flinches back from any splashes, and gasps when water hits her bare arms.

“It’s cold!” she exclaims. Mila only grins.

“It’s fantastic!”

The surf laps at them, it’s icy tendrils reaching up to the hens of their skirts. Mila spins around and laughs, fingers still interlaced with Mary’s; Mary is dragged after her. A startled gasp escapes her when she nearly falls over, just to be caught by Mila.

“You need to find your sea legs!” she laughs.

“Is land not good enough for you?”

Mila grins. “It’s too easy. Too predictable.”

“Too safe?”

“Exactly!”

She spins again, and Mary laughs. Mila kicks up a spray of water wherever she goes. Now that the chill no longer feels like fangs sinking into her skin, it’s almost nice.

Mary takes a deep breath, and charges into the sea after Mila.

* * *

They wander the pier, taking in the various attractions. One of the first places they head is the Wild Animal Show. Mary gapes at the lions and tigers confined to cages. Never before has she seen anything like them, and never this close. The trainers take risks with the creatures that she could never dream of, and her heart is in her throat the entire half hour.

They pass the freak show just in time to glimpse the famous Elephant Faced Man. Mila claps her hands over her mouth and shrieks. She wants to go in, but Mary isn’t sure she can take it (there’s something about seeing humans on display like animals that turns her stomach). Reluctant as Mila is to leave, the promise of rides is sufficient distraction.

They ride together on the Razzle Dazzle, getting knocked around and tossed like ragdolls, before sliding down side by side. When they emerge, they’re both disheveled. Mary’s eyes widen at the state of her dress, but Mila is quick to straighten her out. “You look fine, _motek!_ No better than anyone else here!”

“That’s comforting,” Mary quips. Mila rolls her eyes, grinning as she leads her along.

The carousel is fun and relaxing. Mary chooses a dignified white horse draped in pink blossoms, while Mila is drawn to the tall brown racehorse beside it. As the tide whips them in circles, they both wave and make faces out at the crowd.

All of this is thrilling — _ridiculous_ even, in a way Mary knows would stun her  parents if they could see her now. But the wild energy of Coney Island is infectious. She can’t even think of how she’d look to her Upper Manhattan neighbors. Today, she and Mila swim in a sea of strangers. It feels as if the world belongs to them.

It is the Ferris Wheel at the crux of the park that really steals Mary’s breath. Something about it is incomprehensible. It both terrifies and excites her. No human should be able to reach that high -- to climb up into the clouds, high enough that if you reached an arm out, it seems possible to grab one. To seize the moon, collect the stars… the very idea of being so far above the ground is dizzying. She imagines looking down on the park and the ocean from high above, and her stomach lurches.

Mila keeps up a steady stream of chatter as they slide into their car. She’s been on this ride before, and is filled with nothing but praise — for the height, the thrill, and the view. “It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen, Mary,” she insists as the door slides shut behind them. “You feel like you’re flying.”

Mary peers out the wide window, covered in wire (almost like a prison) and doesn’t reply.

The car begins to climb up and up, leaving the ground far below. She swallows hard, keeping her eyes trained on the ground. Below them, the massive crowds transform from people to ants. The colors and chaos of Coney Island suddenly seems far away. This little car is their entire world: the heights, the pounding of Mary’s heart in her chest, and Mila across from her.

“Don’t be nervous,” Mila speaks up, voice soft. She leans forward, and Mary tries to ignore the way that makes the car shake. “Talk to me.”

“Talk?” Mary blinks. “About what?”

“Anything.”

She takes a moment to consider. She and Mila have talked so much over the past few months about everything that it’s hard to come up with the right topic. Still, the distraction is a blessing. Mary studies her friend’s face, thoughtful.

"Why is your hair so short?" she finally asks. Reaching out, she gives one of Mila's cropped, tight curls a tug. It bounces, causing her entire mop of hair to dance around her face. She's heard of women with short hair -- the magazines say that in Paris it's even becoming a trend -- but she's never seen it firsthand on anyone except Mila. The cut striking, but not moreso than its bright color, or _Mila_ in general. Mary's wondered before, but it has never seemed like the right time to ask. Now, a hundred feet above the ground, she finds her nerve.  
  
Mila's hand ventures up to her hair. She grins. "You want to know? It's not a fun story."  
  
"I do. I'd really like to know."  
  
"Fine. And since you asked so nicely, I won't even ask you something in return."  
  
"Very kind," Mary replies, smirking. There's light in Mila's eyes. Maybe it's just the glow of the ferris wheel lights, maybe it's the fading daylight, but it makes her look beautiful. Mila always looks beautiful, but up here there is something captivating about her. Mary thinks she could stare at her forever.  
  
"A little over a year ago,” she says, playing with her fingers in her lap, “I got sick. The typhoid was going around, and it was spreading through our building like wildfire. Well, I caught it. One day I was fine, and the next..."

She trails off, lips pursing. Her face does not lose it's good humor, but there is something sad there as well. "We could barely afford any medicine. The doctor said I wasn't going to live. I proved him wrong." Mary's hand closes over Mila's own and squeezes. When the other girl looks up, her lips tug into a grin once more. "The only tragedy was my hair! It started falling out while I was sick, so we had to cut it all off. By the time I got better I was like a shaved sheep. I've never been more embarrassed in my life! I wore a scarf around my head for months."  
  
"It grew back," Mary observes, and resists the urge to touch Mila's hair again. A stray curl is falling in her face, and it's just so tempting... but she refrains. "It's beautiful now."  
  
Mila blinks at her, dark lashes fluttering. "Really? I’m no Gibson Girl, but… you think it suits me?"  
  
"It couldn't suit you more.”

Mila grins at her, backlit by the setting sun and cast into haze with the dawn. She is all golden. The light gleams off her hair, turning her skin to honey, her freckles standing out against fair cheeks. When she smiles, it’s like the dawn, and Mary’s brain slips into a momentary haze. She’s seen so many beautiful sunsets, but none of them compare to Mila.

“You’re staring at me,” Mila observes after a few seconds. Mary flushes, but does not look away. Even when Mila leans across the car and takes Mary’s hands in her own, Mary does not tear her eyes from Mila’s face.

A thumb strokes over her knuckles. She feels her breath catch in her throat. The pads of Mila’s fingers are calloused, but her nails are trim. She laces her hands with Mary’s own. Mary is electrified by the friction of their fingers sliding in between one another. Mila’s touch is feather light, but it leaves her feeling like she’s burning. She huffs out a soft laugh that is more like a sigh in the silence.

When their eyes meet again, Mila is blushing, but she looks unafraid.

“You know, Mary, sometimes I can’t figure you out. If I could know what goes through your head, I’d be a happier person.”

Mary’s intense expression does not waver; neither does Mila’s. “You really want to know what I’m thinking?”

“I really do.”

Mila doesn’t flinch. Neither does Mary. A long second of silence stretches between them until Mary finally breaks and cracks a small, uninhibited smirk.

“I’m thinking the heights aren’t nearly as bad when I’ve got you to look at.”

It takes a few seconds for Mila to exhale the breath she’s been holding. She leans back, tension seeping out of her form. The stand-off is broken, and the spell unravels. Mila returns to herself.

“Sometimes I can't figure you out at all!” she exclaims, words laced with a laugh that rings false. “You want to make me blush. You’re just cruel, that’s it. You like it when my face gets as red as my hair?”

“It is kind of funny,” Mary admits. “You look like one big cherry.”

Mila groans and buries her face in her hands. Mary can’t keep the grin off her face.

The sun is setting behind them as the wheel carries them through the air. They begin to go descend back down, slowly, slowly, allowing the sunset to slip from their tenuous grasp. The world fades away. Only the two of them exist, returning to earth side by side.

Mary thinks she understands how a star feels when it falls.


	6. chapter seven

Summer sweeps in with days that drag on forever, and warm winds that threaten to carry Mary’s buoyant spirits away.

It feels, at times, as if she’s walking on air. Life has never seemed brighter than it does in the weeks leading up to June. Every day is a new adventure; new articles to write, magazines to connect with, and time to spend with Mila. She wakes up each morning itching to make it to the cabin.

(She has to wait, of course — Mila doesn’t get out of work until five most days, sometimes later, so they only have a few precious hours of daylight to work with. Most of Mary’s clandestine meetings with Jack are done at night, after Mila has already rushed home. Her parents notice her coming back later and later, but neither say a word.)

“Meredith Bly is one particular voice heralding the organized labor movement’s war cry,” Mila reads from a favorite magazine one day. “Bly’s keen insight and social comprehension reveal his true understand of the plight of the worker, and the necessity of protected labor. Bly’s voice not only stands out, but makes the voices around him ring even clearer.”

“They’re still calling us ‘he’,” Mary mutters, shaking her head. Mila shrugs, grinning widely, as she tosses the magazine onto the table.

“This is amazing, Mary! Our writing is making a real difference!”

“With all the articles we’ve been putting out, I’d hope so.” Mary’s smiling as she speaks. When Mila wraps her arms around her shoulders, her grin grows a bit wider.

Being close to Mila sometimes makes her feel as if she’s living in a dream, teetering just on the edge of waking up. There is a surreal quality to some of the things Mila does. Looking too closely at her can feel like staring head-on into the sun. Her fire is unmatched by anyone else Mary has ever met; her smile makes her a little dizzy. When Mila says something and _means_ it, the whole world seems to light up with energy. It is all raw, unpolished Mila. Mary sometimes can’t believe she’s real, and close enough to touch.

Then she sees Mila in an impossibly human moment, and it is impossible to deny her. She could be lying sideways on the couch with her feet propped against the nearest pillow, skirt rumpled and askew. Mary might spot her nibbling on a stray curl as she reads the paper, stirring a spoon through her tea absently. Perhaps Mila stumbles in from a spring rainstorm, dripping wet and gasping; or she drops an armful of books and curses a blue streak in Yiddish as they scatter. When Mary sees Mila winding her way up the garden path — white dress flattering around her, bright hair blending into the iridescent hues of blooming spring — she looks most human at all.

When the Greeks searched for inspiration, they found the Muses. Mary found Mila.

Mila is not the thing that drives Mary’s writing (she would write whether Mila were here or not, just as she nurtured her pen so enthusiastically before her) but she makes it better. When Mila is around, Mary feels more strongly. Every emotion that swells within her throughout the day is coaxed out by Mila’s presence. Like moths to a flame, they are drawn from within. The hours that Mary spends without Mila during the daytime, while plentiful, are listless compared to those she spends with her.

Mary never realized how it was possible to be so numb to the world around her. When she attended dress fittings with her mother, exchanged endless pleasantries at charity lunches and galas, or spent her time practicing her piano and languages with various tutors… she was alive, but not awake. Her entire life from before Mila felt like walking in a dream. Emotions were a concept instead of a fact. Mary knew them superficially, but never felt them. They never threatened to overwhelm her. She never felt a rush of pure ecstasy; of blinding happiness; of joy so powerful that she could do nothing but laugh. These were only concepts, and distant ones at that.

Mila awoke in her feeling she never knew existed. Mila makes Mary feel as if she can do anything.

Thought it is sometimes difficult to remember a time she existed without Mila’s light, the idea of going without it is unbearable.

Not being near Mila. Being denied the pleasure of seeing her throughout the week. Having to settle back into that same dull, numb half-life she’d been living.

Of all tortures Mary could imagine, this is worst of all.

* * *

Every summer since before Mary was born, the Merrans travelled with a handful of other wealthy Manhattan families up to Wallasee, a little peninsula off of Long Island. The island was exclusively Old Money territory. The families who vacationed there had been doing so for the past few decades, at least. Wallasee Island was their sanctuary from the bustle of summer in the city. It was a refuge; a paradise on earth.

Each year, Mary anticipated the summer months with baited breath. They always brought with them sparkling champagne, lighthearted parties, days in the sun, and familiar faces. Mary adored Castle Pleasant. Not only did her entire family reunite for a few short months (rare, now that her brothers were out in the world) but she got to see her extended “family” as well. Some of the most wealthy families of New York society vacationed there: the Belvilles, the Kincaids, the Allisons. Mary knew them all, and counted them among her friends.

The Castle Pleasant vacation was a yearly delight. Now, however, the thought of leaving makes her stomach churn with unease.

She wouldn’t just be leaving The sweltering Manhattan summer behind. It would mean abandoning the cabin, Meredith Bly… and Mila.

“I’d like not to go,” she confesses, after pouring the details of her annual trip out to Mila’s listening ears. “There’s no way out; my family would revolt. I’ve gone every year since I was a little girl.”

“You shouldn’t refuse to go,” Mila declares decisively. “You can’t. It’s something you enjoy, Mary.”

She _enjoyed_ it; but she isn’t sure how much fun it will be now.

In a lot of ways, Mary can’t believe how the past few months have changed her. In half a year, she discovered more about herself than she knew existed. She found a passion for writing that went beyond a hobby; and in that, discovered a cause that meant something. She made a name for herself and steadily began rising in journalistic ranks to become desired by numerous publications. She’s begun a _career._ Then, of course, the most life-changing thing of all: she met Mila.

Mary has felt more alive in the past few months than she has in eighteen years. Finally, she has a purpose.

Where do family vacations fit into her new life?

She looks up at Mila and feels a little lightheaded. She has changed so much, but hardly anyone knows. Few people are close enough to her to realize; Mary has never let anyone in. Her mother has always been too distant, and only worries about how absent Mary has grown around the house. Her friends know her from teatime and parties, seeing a Mary hardly different from who she’s always been. The only one who’s realized the change in her is her father; but Mary has pushed him away in the past few months as well. She never thought she would, but a gap has grown between them. She locked him out of this part of her life to protect them both; now that it is growing and taking on an existence of its own, she feels more distant from him than ever. There is a whole part of Mary that her father isn’t aware of, could never even conceive. The ways she has grown would shock him.

Jack has seen the change in her; and Mila has watched her unfurl her wings. They are Mary’s closest friends here, the only people she is able to confide in about her new life… and in her stirrings of loneliness, she clings to them.

Mila knows her. She has seen different parts of her, both good and bad, and come to understand Mary. She accepts her for who she is, and believes in a better her to come. That’s more than Mary could ask for.

A month on the island she used to love. Away from home. Away from Mila.

The thought makes Mary’s heart lurch.

On a whim — as if seized by some wild fantasy which she had no hope of controlling — Mary grabs hold of Mila’s hands and pulls them to her own chest.

“Come with me,” she says. “Come up to Castle Pleasant.”

Mila gapes at her for a moment before barking out a laugh. It is a sharp, nervous noise. Mary feels her heart sink.

“You’re joking,” Mila says. Her eyes widen when she realizes that Mary is anything but. “How could I do that? I have work, the union, my family! Mary, do you think it’s possible for me to just run away?”

“I don’t see why not,” Mary replies. “Everyone deserves a vacation.”

“Not at the cost of real responsibility.” Mila shakes her head. “I wouldn’t get paid.”

Mary can’t explain what drives her to do it. Maybe it’s impulse. Maybe it is the desire, fierce and desperate, to share something beautiful with Mila. Maybe the thought of spending months without her makes her stomach twist into knots, or maybe she really doesn’t want to leave her behind. She could not say; but when she pulls Mila’s hands to her chest, manic inspiration gleams in her eyes. “I’ll cover the expenses, and make up for your paycheck. You can get fifty dollars in a month — more than you’d earn at the factory!”

She knows the words are _wrong_ as soon as they’ve left her lips. The way Mila jerks back only confirms it. Her face shifts from shock, to hurt, to anger. She pulls her hands back as if Mary’s slapped them. “Are you _bribing_ me to go with you?”

“Bribing — what?” Surely that wasn’t what Mary meant. She couldn’t bribe Mila. All she wanted was to offer her reassurance that she wouldn’t be losing her paycheck. “No, not at all. Of course not.”

“That’s what it sounds like.” Mila crosses her arms, tucking her hands into her elbows. It’s like a door slamming in Mary’s face. “I won’t accept it. I should hope you have more respect for me than that.”

“I do! I do respect you. I should never have said it. Mila…”

Her voice dies in her throat. Mila sighs and shakes her head, taking a step back. “The articles are finished, aren’t they?”

Mary glances down at the stack of papers in front of her. They’re all written and proofread, ready to be turned over to Jack for final edits. “Yes. They are.”

“Then I’ll be seeing you,” Mila replies. She clears her throat, glancing towards the door, before her attention turns back to Mary once again. “Does this mean… is this goodbye?”

“Not forever,” Mary replies. “I hope.”

A tiny smile tugs at Mila’s lips. “No,” she answers. “Not forever.”

“Goodbye for now, then.”

“For now.” Mila crosses the room, and pulls Mary close. The embrace only lasts a second, but it is _enough._ She captures the sweet strawberries-and-lye-soap smell of Mila’s hair, the warmth of her skin, the low hum she makes as she hugs her tight. Mary captures each of these little treasures and seals them off in a box in the back of her mind, locking them in with a key. The box is theirs alone. She will not open it until they are reunited once more.

“Have a wonderful time for me,” Mila mutters against Mary’s hair. When she pulls away, there’s a forced smile on her face. “The summer sun will be beautiful.”

It will, Mary is sure; but Mila will shine even brighter.

After the other woman leaves, Mary is left staring after her, feeling as if a part of her heart has just walked out the door. Her attachment to Mila, she realizes, is intense; she’s never felt like this for anyone else she’s loved. No one — not her father, her brothers, her good friends — have compared to the way she feels about Mila. Separation from her is like losing the thing Mary loves most.

She swallows hard, forces herself to take a breath, and gathers up her papers. These all have to go to Jack. Then she needs to make it home in time for dinner, and rest up before her dress fitting early tomorrow morning. There’s packing to supervise, and work to do. She’s too busy to dwell on the loneliness carving out a place inside her chest.

It’s not forever, she reminds herself. They will only be apart for a little while; and then she will see her friend again.

Mary is already counting the days.

* * *

Wallasee Island is a constant, year after year.

When Mary was a little girl, she could strip out of her boots and stockings on the deck of her father’s boat, hike up her skirts, and go scrambling onto the decks of her family’s summer home. Barefoot, she used to dance along the shore. Water lapped at her ankles. Sand invaded the spaces between her toes. The gusty breeze, rich with the smell of salt and summer, whipped her hair against her rosy cheeks as beaming sun beat down upon her head.

She never felt more free that on the shores of Wallasee.

The resort earned its nickname of _Castle Pleasant_ not long after the Merran family purchased it. This was not because it resembled an actual castle (it was more a bungalow, albeit a very nice one, with an entire floor for servants and a sunlight attic garret with a window that opened out to the sea). Castle Pleasant earned its name for the parties hosted there.

As their Christmas party is the highlight of the holiday season, the Merran’s are renowned for their summer galas. Mrs. Merran thrives upon organizing event after event. A Saturday evening dinner follows a Friday spent dancing through the night. Few families who vacationed along the shores of Wallasee could compete with the Merrans’ affluence. The abundance of food, the lavish decorations, the free-flowing champagne and brandy… all of it added up to a party to remember.

And by following each night with something even grander, the Merrans made sure no one ever forgot.

Mary doesn’t take as much delight in the social scene of Castle Pleasant. While her mother amuses herself in event planning, Mary charges headlong into summer, with all its joys. The water of the Long Island Sound glitters, a rich azure that never grows too cool. Mary could stare out at it for ages, but it’s siren song calls to her. Often, she wanders to the shore, armed with nothing but her sun hat and notebook; she curls up atop a rock by the shore, and writes. The water is an inspiration. It sweeps her away in its steady ebb and flow. She can travel places she’s never dreamed of.

In the day, she sunbathes, she whimsies, she writes. In the night, she dines and parties. These are the hallmarks of Castle Pleasant life.

Nothing ever changes. It’s been just the same since Mary was a child. She used to sit in the white wicker chairs on the sunlight porch, sipping lemonade and learning to spindle, or doing jigsaw puzzles, or losing herself in a riddle book. Now, those same chairs wait for her to curl up with her notebook and pencil. Her little bedroom, with flowing white curtains and purple comforters, will be unchanged from last year. The portrait her parents commissioned of the entire family still hangs on the wall. As soon as Mary steps into Castle Pleasant, she knows that nothing has changed.

This year, the monotony isn’t _pleasant_ at all. It is unbearable.

It’s all the same. The same halls, same floors, same portraits and furniture and decorations. Everything is the same as it’s always been, except Mary herself.

“Mary, darling, check to see if the maids have fixed the upstairs rooms,” her mother orders absently, adjusting a vase of flowers in the center of the parlor. “Your brothers will be here soon.”

Mary makes her way up the stairs, and inspects the second floor of the bungalow. The bedrooms are the same as ever; even the modern bathrooms, with it’s marble bathtub and flushing toilet, is unchanged. Everything is here, but something is missing. Mary cannot name it; she cannot define it; but she feels it’s absence like a hole in her chest.

Castle Pleasant is not the paradise it once was.

* * *

They do not host guests until the next night. Mary has time to settle in, to rediscover her footing in the old environment. Still, as face after familiar face trickles into the ballroom, she feels unprepared.

She hasn’t seen her brothers in a few months, so that at least is pleasant. Jim and his wife, Edna, are expecting their first child. She nods along to Jim’s rambling about the family business, and exchanges baby names with Edna, but otherwise they have nothing much to talk about. (Her brother chose an excellent partner; Edna is both wealthy, mild mannered, and unspeakable dull. She is a perfect mirror of the eldest Merran sibling.)

In Victor, there’s little else of interest. He’s wearing his dark hair in a ridiculous coif nowadays, and his pharmacy is apparently doing well. He spends the entire evening talking about politics. Mary is very interested in politics, when one is talking about the right sort. Victor’s political interests lie mostly in medical regulations and sales taxes. Every conversation with him is as frustrating as stripping bark from a tree with a spoon.

Her parents aren’t much better. While Mary’s father is content to stand off to the side with his other gentleman friends, Mary’s mother doesn’t miss the opportunity to show off her daughter. Mary’s dress for the night was selected for her. The gown glitters in the warm light, a sparkling waterfall of gold and rubies; but she feels out of place under her neighbors’ admiring stares. The women exclaim over her, _about_ her, and Mary feels put on a pedestal. She despises it. The longer they admire her, the harder it feels to catch her breath.

Finally, she can’t wait anymore. She steals a champagne glass, slips away from the crowd, and filters out onto the empty balcony. At last, she can take a moment to catch her breath.

The sky is always clear out here. Stars glitter like diamonds in an ebony sky. It stretches above her head in an endless canvas, endless and impossible. When she looks out at the sea, the reflection of a full moon sparkles off the water. The churning waves are as dark as the sky.

She closes her eyes and allows herself to escape. For just a moment, she is barefoot and running along the shore. Icy water licks at her heels, calling to her, and she kicks her feet up in the spray. The faster she runs, the farther she can get from Castle Pleasant. The farther she can get from people and places and things that no longer seem _right._ She can tear off the skin that chafes her, cast herself into the water, and swim back home…

She opens her eyes. The balcony railing is cool under her fingertips. The full moon beams.

“Charming night, isn’t it?” speaks up a sudden voice at her side. “The moonlight lends a certain _je ne sais quoi_ to it.”

A hand comes to rest on her arm. Mary doesn’t flinch, nor does she bother looking back. “There’s not much other than sky to be seen out here,” she says, and smirks out at the ocean. “Hello, Alex.”

“Hello, Miss Mary.”

The man behind her swings around to her side, leaning half over the open terrace. Silhouetted against the moonlight, his wavy golden hair is lighter, almost silver. Green eyes appear catlike and pale. He _glows._

Mary has known Alexander Kincaid long enough to be unimpressed by his languid grace. He moves with the ease of a panther stalking through the savanna. There is always something lethargic about him, in spite of the youth coursing through his veins, and the liveliness that dances in his bright eyes. He is every contradiction of youth; clever but careless, ignorant yet intrepid. His angelic looks mask a devil’s sense of humor.

“You look well,” Mary observes. Alex gives an impassioned hum.

“So it goes. Things always return to their natural state. My natural state happens to be fantastically handsome.” He pauses, scrutinizing the roll of her eyes. “You could act more pleased to see me.”

“I’m always pleased to see you, Alexander,” she replies.

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” he hums, giving the glass in her hands a light tug. She releases it. Thrilled, Alexander tips it back and takes a sip. “How does your garden grow?”

“Quite fine, nice of you to ask.” Her mind flashes back to the flourishing garden, and Mila’s red head bobbing through the flowers. She cannot keep the smile off her face. If she thought Alexander would miss it, she was naive.

“The writing going that well?”

When she glances over at him, eyebrows raised, he smirks. “I figured you had something to occupy your time. You’ve been restless recently. At Christmas, you kept chattering on about those strikes. You’re using a pen name, then?”

“I am,” she replies, voice level. Alexander’s smirk widens.

“And not writing for your father’s paper. Mary, I’m shocked.”

Damn Alexander’s deductive skills. “You ought to be a detective.”

Alexander snorts. “You know how far my interest in honest labor goes.”

“Try it,” Mary retorts.

He takes another sip of champagne, gazing thoughtfully out at the night sky. “Or a gossip columnist. I never can keep my nose out of other people’s business.” When he glances at her, his smile is bright. “My column could be published right next to yours!”

“You’re insufferable,” Mary mutters, but she’s laughing. It is difficult not to laugh when it comes to Alexander. He revels in his own ridiculousness.

Alexander drains the last of his champagne in one gulp, leaving an empty glass behind. He looks a bit disappointed, until Mary neatly plucks it out of his grasp. “Hmm. Careful, my dear. Any more than that and you’ll be swimming in it. Don’t want to wake up nude on the docks again, do you?”

“You had every obligation to stop me,” he retorts huffily; that’s one particular memory of last summer that Alexander doesnt look back on half as fondly as Mary. “I was betrayed. And anyway, I’m a different man now. Not so much of a lightweight.”

“You don’t say?” Mary watches as he steals another glass of champagne from a passing tray. He doesn’t sip it, though; he just cradles it, as if he’s happy to hold something. “Always full of surprises.”

“Indeed. Did you see Mrs. Carbuchel’s latest hairstyle? I was so shocked that I nearly fell into the Sound when I saw her.”

“It looks like she turned an animal into a wig!”

“You did hear the rumors about what her son’s been doing to the bank?”

“Who? Not Benjamin? I haven’t heard anything! Tell me what you know.”

They fall into the familiar routine of chatter that has taken up their days since childhood. Mary, not usually one for gossip, is always delighted by Alexander’s acerbic tongue. In turn, he appreciates her reason, and her own off-kilter shade of humor. She and Alexander did not find friendship with each other because they are very alike; but because they are so different.

They are like two completely different songs being played in a similar key. Somehow, they harmonize with each other.

It has always been easy to talk to Alexander, and Mary is glad to be his confidants. At the very least, he always has interesting stories. Alexander is a bit of a rogue. He frequents places wealthy young men shouldn’t go to, and enjoys things they ought not. His various exploits at gentleman’s clubs (not the ones that welcome women, in any capacity) are the subject of vague gossip; but nothing beats hearing it straight from his lips.

They sip champagne and talk well into the night. Alexander dances with her through most of the quadrille. During dinner, he sits next to her. He spends most of the time entertaining Mary with various tidbits of gossip. Inevitably, though, her own tongue catches up with her.

It happens by accident. Alexander finishes telling a joke about a socialist in a tavern; through her laughter, Mary declares, “That’s a joke Mila would like.”

She sees the moment his interest is piqued. His eyes light up like a wolf who’s just spotted raw meat. “Really?” he says. “And who is _Mila?”_

The way he drags out her name sounds almost predatory, as if it’s a rich treat he’s savoring. Mary feels flustered.

She stammers out an explanation, well away from the earshot if anyone else. She talks about the strikes, Meredith Bly, and Jack’s ambitions for various union magazines. Most of all, though, she talks about the cabin, and her time with Mila. Alexander is riveted.

He remains fascinated during her recount of the day at Coney Island. He nods along to her memories of getting ice cream with Mila after work. He even laughs at some of the funnier memories Mary has of her friend. When Mary gets to the last day, however — the moment she and Mila parted for the summer — he looks more delighted than ever. There’s that wicked little sadistic gleam in his eyes that she knows all too well. Alexander is cruel. His fangs usually do not lash at her, but when they do, he can be venomous. She draws in her shoulders, preparing herself.

“I am just amazed,” he drawls. “You, diamond of the Manhattan social elite, invited your working-girl friend — a union member, a factory girl, a _socialist Jew,_ of all things —“

“Alexander, I consider you my friend. Which is the only reason I’m asking, instead of _telling_ you, not to disrespect her.”

Alexander holds up his hand. Even he knows better than to challenge Mary when she sounds dangerous. “No disrespect,” he replies smoothly. “So you invited your Russian doll to join you at Wallasee: an island polluted with the upper crust, whose favorite dinner topic is their respective considerable fortunes.” He raises his eyebrows. “You thought she’d enjoy herself? _Captive_ in the lap of luxury?”

Mary hesitates. When Alexander puts it like that, she sounds like an idiot. Worse — it sounds like she was disrespecting Mila. Just as she had said.

That wasn’t her intention. The thought that Mila wouldn’t enjoy herself here never even crossed her mind… but she _wouldn’t,_ of course. How could Mary have been so blind?

“In her shoes, you couldn’t pay me enough to come here,” Alexander breezes on.

“I did offer to pay her...”

His eyes widen in shameless delight. “You _didn’t!_ My god.”

Mary buries her face in her hands and fights the urge to groan. She bears the radiant brunt of her friend’s Cheshire grin. Like a film loop, the scene of her proposal plays over and over in her head. No wonder Mila rejected her!

“I do not understand how you can be so fond of a woman, yet display an utter disregard of her feelings to the point of blindness. It’s remarkable.”

Mary glowers at him. “This coming from the least empathetic person I’ve ever met.”

“I don’t need empathy to understand people. I see how they think, how they feel. Humans are exquisitely simple creatures.”

 _“‘Human behavior flows from three main sources,’”_ Mary dutifully recites. _“‘Desire, emotion, and knowledge.’_ Somewhere along the way, you lost one.”

Alexander looks unperturbed. _“‘I am intelligent, because I know that I know nothing,’”_ he counters. “Perhaps I’m even smarter, because I’m happy not wanting to.”

Mary shakes her head. A part of her can’t understand how Alexander lives. She enjoys her friend’s company, of course, but she could never walk in his shoes. Alexander lives an entirely self-pleasuring life. His hedonism is practically his defining characteristic. So content in the role of wealthy playboy has he become that he never strives for anything else, never dreams of greater things. All of his intellect, his charm, intuition, and wit — it festers in a body devoid of ambition. Alexander’s throne is so high that he never imagines elevating it.

Mary could never live like that. She could never be satisfied with her life if she passively allowed it to happen around her. She could never consign herself to nothing, and be _happy_ about it.

Alexander catches her eye and smirks, as if he’s able to read every one of her thoughts. Even if he could, he wouldn’t care. By now, Alexander is more than comfortable with the life he leads.

(The only one who can change it, after all, is Alexander. He’s just twenty-one; he can alter his life however he wishes. The problem is that he doesn’t _want_ to.)

It is a long moment before he sparks again. “For whatever reason, you care about this girl.”

Mary shifts her eyes towards the open water, and frowns deeply. “Yes,” she replies. “I do.”

Alexander is silent for a long moment. He glares out onto the moonlit beach. His face is unreadable, almost expressionless, were it not for the heavy set to his brow. He is thinking deeply about something, but Mary has no clue what. (Can Alexander understand? Has her friend ever care about someone to the point that their presence changes the way the world looks? To the point that being separated from them feels like a knife buried in your chest? What sort of _friendship_ would Alexander call feelings like that? Is it possible for him, or anyone, to understand?)

Finally, Alexander relaxes. He sighs. His thoughtfulness slips into oblivion like water of a duck’s back, and he is once again charming, unaffected. He turns to Mary and flashes a smile.

“I’d say a walk down the shore would do us both good. Clear our heads from all this champagne.” He offers her an arm, crooking his fine eyebrow. Mary recognizes it for what it is: an olive branch. This is the closest that Alexander can come to an apology, to sympathy.

She smiles. “That sounds excellent,” she replies, and takes his arm.


	7. chapter eight

The sun beats down, relentless and brutal, in defiance of the breeze coming in from the open ocean. It tans their bare heads, lending streaks of gold to Mary’s dark hair, and bathes Alexander in a halo of light. Mary leans back on her arms, tilting her head back to bask in the heat of a seaside afternoon.

“Stay still,” Alexander chides. “I’m nearly done.”

He looks like a hunchback, bent over his paper the way he is. Mary peers at him from beneath half-lidded eyelids, and must resist the urge to laugh. Poor Alexander likes to fancy himself an artist on good days; on bad ones, he is able to acknowledge exactly what everyone else already sees. Still, she allowed him to draw her, because they were bored and it is a way to pass the time. She thinks she looked quite nice today, anyways, in a pastel orange sundress, with ribbons and embroidery across her breast. Her hair had been tucked beneath a flowery sun bonnet when they started out. Now she’s freed it of all its pins, and it hangs loosely down her back. The bonnet rests by her hand, forgotten in the grass.

The chorus of waves lapping against the shore and birds chirping high above them create the perfect ambiance to accompany a sweet July day. Mary hums to herself, closing her eyes, and allows herself to enjoy the moment. Laziness, she’s come to realize, is a commodity she is fortunate to afford.

Finally, Alexander makes a noise of satisfaction, and drops his pencil into his lap. “Done.”

“How does it look?” Mary inquires, leaning over to catch a glimpse.

Alexander pulls the portrait away, peering at it with narrowed eyes. After a few seconds he huffs and tosses the notebook aside. “Let’s just say,” he sighs, “that I am a better artist than you are a seamstress, but you’ve got more skill with a pencil than I ever will.”

“How bad could it be?” Mary demands, gathering up the portrait for herself. Then, after a second: “Dear lord.”

“You flatter me.”

“You clearly don’t return the favor.” Mary tugs the page out of his sketchbook and crumples it up, tossing it over the edge of the grassy outcropping they are perched on. The paper tumbles over the rocks until it is blown into the surf. Alexander doesn’t protest. He actually looks relieved that it’s gone.

They lapse back into silence, watching the piece of paper bob in the water like a deformed seagull. Over their heads, a bird trills. The breeze whistles through the leaves.

“Tell me something, Alex?”

“Anything, my dear.”

She glances over at him. “Even if I ask something horribly personal?”

“I am shameless,” he replies, smirking. “Do your worst.”

“Have you ever loved someone?”

The smile fades off his face. It is replaced by a crooked eyebrow, his green eyes gleaming with derision. Something in Alexander’s face twitches, as if her question might have struck a deep-buried nerve, but he gives nothing away.

“Love is a terribly conventional way of promising someone you won’t betray them, when really you will; and that they matter to you, which may be true, but never as much as you love yourself.” He chuckles into the breeze. “To love someone is to pretend to give a part of yourself away. I find the idea provincial.”

Mary purses her lips. She can not be surprised by her friend’s remark, but she isn’t satisfied. “You have a flat view of things.”

“Indeed? I like to think my opinions hold at least as much water as a pothole.”

“Don’t oversell yourself.”

Alexander rolls onto his stomach, pillowing his chin in his hands. Bare elbows dig into the grass, staining his fair skin verdant. “What’s got love on your mind, Miss Mary?” That teasing smile returns to his face. “Could it be you’ve fallen for someone?”

“Well, it’s certainly none of your business,” she retorts, keeping her eyes trained on the sea.

“Who is it?”

“No one at all.”

“If I only knew you a little, I could believe it.” He hums, plucking a white weed from the grass. With one swift toss, it lands on Mary’s skirt. “Knowing you _too_ well, however…”

Mary turns her head to face him at last. He looks torn between laughter and sympathy. Just for a moment, she can’t stand him.

She won’t tell him a thing, of course. Whatever she feels is none of his business. He has no need, no right to know.

She also has no one else she can ask.

“Do you think it’s possible,” she says slowly, “to love someone… without really loving them? To be in love with someone without romance, without desire? Without… anything a married couple might share?”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is _family,”_ Alexander drawls. He catches Mary’s frown. “Friends, perhaps?”

Mary presses her lips into a thin line. “Friends,” she echoes in a hollow voice. “That must be it.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve finally fallen for me!”

When Mary rounds on Alexander, startled, an unashamed grin has stretched itself across his face. He rolls onto his back, peering at her upside down — a spoiled rotten Cheshire Cat.

“Alexander,” she says deliberately, “I would sooner marry a festering boil than allow your ring on my finger.”

Alexander settles back, allowing his hands to fall to his sides in the grass. He gazes up at the sky contentedly, and smiles to himself. “I,” he declares, “wouldn’t have it any other way.”

* * *

The night is probably too warm for the dress Mary wears, but she can’t bring herself to care. There is something charming about showing off her bare arms during the day -- for the eyes of her family of Alexander along, all people she can trust not to stare. When it comes to evening, however, with the whole of society gathered in Castle Pleasant’s dining room, Mary does not want to show off. She doesn’t want to attract stares; she can not stand feeling as if she has been elevated on a pedestal. The very thought makes her skin crawl, and leaves her desperate to hide every inch of it.

She settles on a modest dress of rose chiffon and lace, with long sleeves that trail down to stop at her elbows. The cuffs keep scratching her skin, and all the heat of dozens of bodies in one room seems to trap itself in the fabric. She is left shifting uncomfortably by the dessert table, tugging at her sleeves and trying not to sweat.

If Alexander were here, he would greet her with an I told you so. If Jack were here, he’d roll his eyes. If Mila were here, she’d just laugh.

Yet Mary finds herself all alone.

Not alone, of course. Her mother flits around the room like a jewel-bedecked butterfly, never lingering in one place for more than a few moments. She is the perfect hostess. Entertaining guests and managing crowded gatherings; this is the role she was born for, and she plays it like the most seasoned stage actress.

Her father is lost somewhere in the group of millionaires sipping brandy across the room. One of her brothers is there, Victor, the bachelor; at the other end of the room, Jim and his wife spin in a rolicking waltz. The strains of a violin keep the room lively; over the din of pleasant conversation, Mary imagines she can hear the notes running through the musicians’ heads. If she knew anything about instruments, and anything about music, she’d like to join them. Playing a song would be better than sitting alone, hot and uncomfortable, listening to it.

Her mother turns at just the moment to catch her gaze from across the room. Mary holds it for a moment. She only turns away when she sees her mother’s brows furrow, lips pursing into something that is not a question.

Her relationship with her mother is a spiderweb of so many _if onlies_ that she doesn’t know how to untangle them all. _If only they had been closer growing up. If only they were more similar in temperament. If only her mother ever made an effort to connect with her… or Mary, the other way around. If only Mary didn’t look at her mother and see everything she dreaded one day becoming._

Put like that, she sounds heartless. She sounds as if she hates her mother, which couldn’t be farther from the truth. She loves her mother, and she respects her -- but the idea of them ever understanding each other is an unrealistic dream.

Mary purses her lips, straightening her posture against the back of her chair. She’s sat through enough of these dinners over the past month to slip back into familiar routine. There is no sense in frowning here, when everyone else is wearing painted smiles anyway.

She is distracted by her sleeves again when a pair of feet suddenly step into her line of vision. She glances up, surprised, to see a gloved hand extended towards her. She follows the velvet-clad arm to meet her expectant brother’s face.

“Why not dance, little sister?” he says to her. “It’s a perfect night for it.”

“It is a night for dancing, I suppose,” she agrees cautiously. “A bit too hot for me.” Nonetheless, she takes his hand, and allows him to pull her to her feet.

The band is playing a lively ragtime tune, and it doesn’t take long for the pair to fall into step. She may not see Victor often anymore, but dancing with him is muscle memory. All the hours of lessons with private tutors, learning to boulanger and cotillon, to waltz and reel, come flooding back to Mary at once. She’s able to move with confidence in the arms of her brother, even with his occasional stumbles over his own feet.

“You’ve got the wrong shoes on,” she notes, peering down at them. Cheekiness flashes in her eyes when she looks up at him. “Keep up, brother.”

Victor smiles. His smile has always matched his face, unimpressive and a little dull, notable only for the boyishness that attracts any eyes in the first place. Victor is three years older than Mary, nearly twenty-two, but he has always been the most cautious of the siblings (and, according to their father, the least clever). Mary is fond of her brother, despite how getting an interesting conversation out of him is like pulling teeth.

“You look very well,” he observes. “There’s a glow to your face.”

“I’m glad you think so. The sun is doing its job.”

“You must be --” He has to stop and twirl her; when she ends up in his arms once more, he seems a little quizzical. Something in his expression kindles Mary’s curiosity, nurtured by months of reporting and interviewing strangers. She’s gotten good at telling when someone’s got something on their mind, and isn’t sure how to say it.

“You must be pleased with this turn of events, then?” Victor finally says.

Mary tilts her head. “I don’t know what you mean, Vic.”

“You don’t.”

“I don’t.” She frowns up at him, not liking the surprise written across his face. “Is there something I ought to know?”

Victor swallows hard. His entire lean throat bobs with it; how on earth, Mary wonders, can he stand to be a pharmacist when he so clearly shows it whenever he bears bad news? He must give patients heart attacks on the daily.

Equally unsubtle, she steps on his toe. He lets out a yelp of pain, doubling forward, and allowing her a clear view of his expression. There’s something buried in those eyes of his, something that she can’t make out. Whatever it is, it’s got to do with her, and she doesn’t like it.

“I’m sure,” Victor grinds out, clutching her wounded foot, “that whatever news there is to share, it isn’t my place to share it.”

“Indeed,” comes another voice from behind them both, “it is not. Your discretion is admirable.”

Mary exhales in relief. A wealth of anxiety fades from her in an instant. Whatever strange enigmatism has overcome her brother, her father will be the one to clear it up. As long as she has been alive, he’s never been dishonest with her. If Victor insists on speaking in riddles, her father is the man to decipher them.

With one swift movement, Mr. Merran steals his daughter from her dance partner’s grasp. With the amount of dancing his wife does with various men in the room, Mary’s father is experienced in stealing lady dancers away. He smiles at her, and she can not help but laugh. In a second they are off, reeling around the room to a lively ragtime melody that seems to carry them through the air. Mary’s feet are light and sure beneath her; her father’s hand on her waist feels more comfortable than anyone else she could imagine.

They reel until they are both breathless, grinning unabashedly at each other. Mary feels swept away, lashed back and forth by the waves in the sound. One foot is planted years in the distant past, when an eleven year old Mary beseeched her father to teach her how to polka, for the inevitable day she would dance with more experienced partners; she feels the burn in her legs from that afternoon spent rehearsing in her father’s arms, following him step for step. Her other foot is firmly in the present, where the band’s melody is just winding down, and her father is staring at her with a dark, inscrutable gaze.

If Alexander knows _her_ too well, then Mary knows her father far better. She tilts her chin up, studying him thoughtfully. “Penny for your thoughts.”

Something affectionate flickers across his face. It’s followed just as quickly by sadness, and the sight of it makes Mary’s breath turn to ice in her lungs. When her father slips a hand up to caress her face, his touch is not comforting. It leaves a queasy anxiety churning in the pit of her stomach.

“Let’s step outside,” he suggests. “I’ve got to talk to you.”

She follows obediently in his footsteps until they break out onto the balcony. The moon gleams brightly against the pitch black sky, it’s shine reflected off the sound. The air is almost muggy. It clings to Mary’s skin, gluing her long sleeves to her arms. She takes a deep breath of night air and winces as heat fills her lungs.

When she glances over at her father, he isn’t staring out at the sound’s glistening waters. His attention is trained on her.

“Something's troubling you,” she says. It’s not a question. She _knows_ it, as certainly as she knows that the moon is full tonight, and that the sun will rise in the morning. Something is gnawing at her father mercilessly; and her reporter’s instinct tells her that he, too, is searching for the words to express it with.

He takes a deep breath, and begins slowly. “My dear, you are my only daughter.”

Mary’s lips twitch. “I certainly should hope so.”

“I never… imagined I would have a daughter before you came along, and I never wanted on. Girls always seemed like so much trouble compared to boys — too hysterical, dim-witted, flighty. From the very moment you were born,” he adds, catching her disgruntled frown, “you have wasted no opportunity to prove me wrong.”

He has to stop again. Mary’s hands tighten along the balcony rail as she observes his terse expression. He looks as if he’s swallowed a lemon, and is now choking on it. Her poor father is struggling with words for the first time in his life, and she doesn’t know how to help him.

“There comes a time,” he continues on, “when every child grows some degree of… independence. Even your precious girl. And this has always been an inevitable part of your life that I always imagined I would share. I… wanted you to grow up knowing you could tell me anything.”

Mary feels her fingers grow stiff, knuckles whitening. She is surprised the iron rail doesn’t bend beneath her grip. “Is that what this is about?” she asks in a low voice.

“I don’t want to upset you, my dear.”

“And yet.” Mary finally releases her hold on the railing and rounds on her father, fire burning in her chest. This was a confrontation she always knew was inevitable; still, she hoped it could be put off for as long as possible. She’d seen this argument in the far distant future. Now that it is here, right in front of her… she doesn’t know what to say.

“You can’t take my independence from me,” she finally declares, forcing her voice not to waver. “It’s something that is mine. My life is mine to live as I choose! Father, this is the twentieth century, the age of progress! The ways our world will change over the next decades will be immeasurable, remarkable, and I want to be a part of that —“

“Mary,” her father cuts in, face creased with a deep frown. Mary isn't done.

“And I want to do it as a free woman. If I need to find happiness through following my own path —“

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

She cuts herself off. Her brows furrow. “What are you saying, then?” she inquires, more than a little disappointed she made such a speech for nothing. When her father makes no move to reply, she turns her sharp gaze on him.

“You must understand how I feel about this,” he says slowly. “I don’t like it.”

“I understand,” Mary retorts. A flame of indignation sparks in her once more, but it is undermined by concern for her father. All at once, he seems years older and decades frailer. “But, Daddy, it isn’t up to you to like it. My life doesn’t need the approval of anyone.” _Even you,_ she adds silently, though her tongue shrinks away from the words. 

Her father shakes his head, running a hand over his thinning hair — his worst stress habit. “You’re a frustrating girl, Mary,” he declares. “Sometimes I worry that your good sense is undermined by stubbornness.”

“Maybe the problem is that _you_ think of it as stubbornness, while to me, everything I do is just as sensible as the rest.”

Her father smiles thinly. “If you did not argue with me, you would not be my Mary,” he says, and places a hand on her shoulder.

It happens all at once; but he moment he touches her, Mary knows something is wrong. She jerks away. His touch _burns,_ like the hand of a stranger. Never before has her father handled her so delicately. Never before has he _looked_ at her with that curious mixture of sympathy and sadness in his eyes. The sudden certainty that something is not right nearly overwhelms her. She takes a few stumbling steps back.

 _“This turn of events,”_ she echoes, her brother’s words ringing in her head. Then, it had sounded like an honest question; now it rings as a warning. “Daddy, what’s going on?”

Her father says nothing. He tears his eyes away from her, frowning across the ocean.

“Daddy…”

She wants to sound like a reporter, sharp and inquisitive, demanding a reply. Her voice leaves the lips of a frightened child.

“My Mary.” His hand cups her arm and gives it a squeeze. It is a stark, impersonal thing; the sort of treatment her father would give to Victor or Jim, but never his favorite child. He forces a businessman’s smile onto his face, all pleasantness, and pulls away from her. “Not to worry. It’s nearly time for dinner.”

Something in Mary wilts. She feels sick to her stomach. All at once, the air is too hot, the music too shrill, the chatter of dining guests unbearable. Her father steps back into the room, and she is left on the balcony, gaping out at the water below her.

She could flee. The thought occurs to her in an almost delirious instant. She could leap over the balcony railing, throw off her shoes as she sprints down the grassy path, and finally reach the shore barefoot. She could stumble over sand and rocks, allowing the water to lap at her toes, basking in the breeze and the moonlight upon her skin. She could roll up her sleeves, and know no one is looking at her.

Running away seems like the most appealing idea in the world.

Inside, the bell chimes for guests to take their seats. Mary’s eyes remain fixed on the sea.

After a moment, she turns around and steps back into the dining room.

* * *

Dinner is an aggressively pleasant affair. Mary is used to this by now: inane socialite chatter; men discussing politics and finances (of course, not listening to any input from the women); gossip, family histories, praise for the fashion and decoration of the evening. It is the exact same conversation that’s been carrying on all night long. The same sentiments are repeated, the same words echoed. Everything is just as it ought to be.

Across the table, Alexander’s face is growing flushed. He’s on his third glass of brandy now, and draining it with a single-minded determination. Mary keeps trying to catch his eye, but he won’t look at her. He is focused on the task at hand — which is, apparently, ignoring his meal and getting roaring drunk.

Another pair of eyes catch hers from across the table, ocean blue instead of familiar green. Her mother is staring at her with intent. When Mary meets her gaze, her mother just smiles. It is the same smile mothers always give to their children; the one that says, _everything is going to be fine._

Mary thinks of the sea again, of the moon and the water, the freedom. Dinner rests heavy on her tongue.

A sudden click of glass sounds throughout the room. When Mary looks up, her mother is on her feet, holding a glass of champagne in the air. It catches the light, gold glimmering in its bubbly surface. Mary feels transfixed by it, unable to turn her eyes away.

“You’ll have to forgive my impatience, but I simply cannot hold in my toast a moment longer!” Mrs. Merran announces. A round of chuckles rise up from the table. She beams, completely at peace in the spotlight. “Tonight is a wonderful evening, for a variety of reasons — not in the least getting to spend it with you fine people.”

“Here, here!” someone says. Mrs. Merran chuckles.

“I would like to offer _this_ toast, however, up to the latest happy couple in our midst. To their continued health and happiness, grace, and tolerance for each other in the face of their impending union.”

Mary’s heart hammers against her ribs. Her eyes can’t help but dart to Alexander again. Finally, _finally,_ he is looking at her. She wishes to god that he weren’t.

“To Mr. Alexander Kincaid,” her mother chimes, “and my daughter, Miss Mary Alice Merran! To their future together!”

The table’s enthusiastic toasts ring hollow in Mary’s ears. She feels the floor drop out from under her. The only thing that keeps her from falling is her head, so stuffed with cotton that it is surely ready to float away. The world reels around her, surreal and incorporeal.

Surely this can not be real. Surely this is a dream, and any moment now she will open her eyes and feel the sense of mounting panic slip away like water. She will be in her own bed; or, perhaps, she will wake up in the cottage, to Mila cradled in her arms once again.

“Here, here!” a woman next to her proclaims. “Oh, how nice another wedding will be!”

_Wedding…_

_Their future together…_

_This turn of events…_

_Alexander…_

She looks up. There is suddenly no air in the room; her lungs spasm, unable to pull in even the slightest breath. She lurches forward, grabbing the arms of the chair to steady herself, and somehow finds her way to her feet.

“I’m feeling unwell,” she manages to gasp out. “I need a moment…”

Someone says her name, but she doesn’t look back. She doesn’t think. She just walks, feet unable to carry her fast enough, until she has slipped out of the dining room and out of sight of the crowd.

That is when she allows herself to run.

Her feet carry her along tiled hallways, past ornate paintings and decorative busts; down the spiral staircase, nearly tripping over the hem of her dress; out the doors and into the humid night. The heel of her shoe breaks under her, and she hastily kicks it off. The other quickly follows, and then she is sprinting barefoot down the path, across the grassy lawn.

She cannot run fast enough to escape the chorus of cheers that follow her. The happy faces and pleasant voices. That glowing glass of champagne as it caught the chandelier light. Her brother’s voice, filled with _pity._ Her father, head bent with guilt. Alexander, unable to even meet her eyes. Her mother, watching her from across the room, mouth turning up in a knowing smile.

Phantoms flash across her vision, carrying her far away. With one breath, she is standing in front of the cottage, framed by springtime flowers. The next breath takes her high above the sprawling landscape of Coney Island, the sky close enough to touch. She is in _The Journal’s_ office, staring at her own words sprawled on the newspaper in front of her.

All of this is her past. Her _future_ is crumbling away like magnificent castles built from nothing but dust.

 _Marriage._ Marriage to _Alexander._ It is the end of the life she’s known; all that she’s built for herself, thrown away like it was never more than a childish game to begin with.

She can’t breathe. Her lungs are going to explode in her chest. Her head reels, ready to tip over and spill its contents out onto the grass. She can’t escape the image of that damned glass of champagne. It looms above her heat, haunting her. She squeezes her eyes shut to try to hide from it.

“Mary!”

No. She can’t be found — she has to hide. She presses her hand against something coarse, forcing heaving breaths into her lungs, and tries to imagine she’s invisible.

“Mary, look at me. Come on.”

She knows exactly who that voice belongs to; he is the last person she wants to see.

She forces her eyes open, and immediately the entire situation is less a nightmare and more reality. The world around her fades back into focus. She has almost reached the water; her bare feet dig into sandy grass, and the waves beat at the shore from just a few yards away. She is braced against a tree, harsh bark digging into the skin of her palm. The moon’s light casts the entire shore in its phantom glow.

When she turns around, Alexander has stopped several feet away from her, free of his suit jacket, his eyes wide.

”You have to believe me. I didn’t know about this until my father told me tonight. Yours was supposed to tell you too… I didn’t know, Mary. I swear it.” 

There is no need for him to justify himself. She knows he didn't know. Until the moment he vanished from the party, he was as clueless as she was. _Blissful ignorance._

“I can’t be married,” she exclaims. “Alexander, I can’t. I _can’t._ I love —“

She cuts herself off. Her eyes widen; they reflect the light of the moon shining off the water, as if a sudden epiphany has taken form behind them. When Mary’s chest heaves, her entire body seems to go with it. She lets out a sob free of tears, the product of pent up rage.

“I love someone else,” she whispers to the night. “I’m in love.”

The moment she says the words, something inside of her locks into place. They are out there in the world; she has said them, admitted it to herself. She cannot take it back.

For a long moment, Alexander is silent. His uneven breathing slowly levels out; eventually, the chirp of crickets and the bray of the waves drown out everything. After what seems like forever, he sighs.

“I know,” he says softly. He probably has known since the moment Mary asked him a question he was too afraid to answer. “I understand, Mary. But we haven’t got any choice.”

”What if we —“

“We have no choice,” he repeats. There is a serrated edge to his voice, harsh as jagged stone. “We can’t argue with them. They’ve come up with this plan, and all we can do is follow through with it. You thought our fates belong to us? Hah.”

He takes a breath, squeezing his eyes shut. When he recovers, his voice is polished marble once more. “So, we both marry people we don’t love. When life gives you lemons, right? We make the best of it. That’s the only thing we can do. At least we don’t hate each other.”

It’s true — she and Alexander have been friends for years, and always on good terms. Their families are close. They’ve grown up together. They know each other inside and out. From anyone’s point of view, it would seem like the perfect match.

_Except…_

“I can’t marry you,” Mary says, “I‘m sorry, Alex.”

Alexander chuckles, dry and brittle as autumn leaves. He runs a hand through his perfect coif, destroying it. When he drags a hand over his jaw, he looks less a polished millionaire’s son, and more a frightened boy.

“You should have listened to me, Mary,” he mutters. “I told you love wasn’t worth the trouble.”


	8. chapter nine

The moment Mary steps off the ferry and onto Manhattan soil, the world slips back into alignment.

Since the night of the dinner, she’d done nothing but agonize over where to go from there. The final weeks of her vacation were spent avoiding everyone, from her parents to Alexander. She couldn’t stand to look at any of them. She couldn’t bear their faces, their inquisitive stares, trying to pry into the layers of her thoughts. More than once, she decided she hated them. She hated them all. She hated everyone on the god forsaken island. Everyone in the world except Mila.

Of course, she could not avoid reality forever. She slept in the same house, with her parents just down the hall. They both tried to talk to her more than once (her mother was enthusiastic, her father apologetic); Mary became skilled at blocking out their words while pretending to listen to everything they had to say. Dinner parties were still being held nightly on the island, and while she could beg sick from the ones in their neighbor’s ballrooms, Castle Pleasant was a different story. So Mary had to endure. She tolerated the congratulations, the praise, the well-wishes. “What a beautiful bride you’ll make!” someone told her, and forcing herself to smile was physically painful.

Somehow, she managed. She survived the final month of captivity in her childhood paradise, and has made it back to land.

Home once more, everything seems much clearer. Being in familiar surroundings has always helped Mary think. Being so far from Castle Pleasant lends the entire vacation a dreamlike quality. She is able to look at the situation objectively — as if watching a play on stage. Surely she cannot be the one engaged; surely it is not her parents, always so obliging and practical, forcing her into a future she never wanted. It was some other girl who fled the party last night — some character, fleeting and wild, who sprinted across the sand barefoot and spat curses at the water.

The only thing unquestionably _real_ that night is the epiphany she reached. It has stayed with her ever since — locked deep inside her chest, safe and private. That, without question, happened to her. The realization that she loves Mila is her treasure, and hers alone.

She loves Mila, and the knowledge twists her stomach into knots. She is an engaged woman, in love with someone else. She’s in love with a _woman_ of a vastly different social class.

The very notion is absurd. Yet there is no denying the truth; it encompasses Mary’s heart completely, leaving no shelter of blissful ignorance. She is in love with Mila. She has loved Mila, perhaps, from the moment she saw her.

Mary knows what she must do, of course. Returning to Manhattan only cements the certainty in her head. She still hears the echo of Alexander’s words in her ears. Without a doubt, he is right — loving will only lead to heartbreak. It isn’t worth the trouble.

She is soon to be married. In order for it to be real, Mary needs to put distance between herself and Mila.

In theory, this should be easy. It’s not as if the two of them run in circles that overlap. Mila is kept busy at work; when she is not there, she is with the union, organizing strikes and listening to speakers. When she isn’t there, she is with her family. It’s a miracle she ever finds time for writing at all. Mary, whose schedule is much more relaxed, has always found herself in awe at Mila’s limitless energy. Now, however, she’s grateful that their paths don’t intersect more often. This way it is easier to keep her distance.

So she thinks.

In practice, staying away is the hardest thing in the world.

Mary thinks she has resolved herself to stay away from Mila; then she steps back into the cottage, mind only on retrieving several notebooks she tucked into a drawer for safekeeping before summer, and she sees her. Mila is sitting at the desk, hammering away at the typewriter. Her posture is straight, back unbowed. She types with slow deliberation, fingers hesitating over the keys. Her brows are furrowed, and she worried her lower lip between her teeth. Her curls fan about her head like she’s forgotten how to comb them.

She is messy, she is beautiful, and she is real. She is more real than anything Mary has seen or felt since that disastrous night.

“Mila,” she breathes, and Mila turns around. Her face lights up with a blinding grin. That is the moment Mary knows she is gone.

When Mila wraps her in a hug so warm that Mary feels her insides melt, she can’t help hugging her back. Mila has a way of embracing someone that makes them feel as if they are the only person that matters in the world; as if, even for one moment, someone loves them completely. Mary gives herself up to the hug and squeezes her eyes shut.

“I missed you,” Mila whispers. “I’m so happy you’re home.”

As long as she is here, everything that happened at Castle Pleasant seems worlds away. Perhaps none of it was real. Maybe, just maybe, it was all just a bad dream.

She knows that isn’t true; but now that she’s back home, it doesn’t matter. The Kincaids live in their mansion across town. Mary never sees Alexander outside of occasional social events. The wedding isn’t until springtime.

For just a little while, none of it has to matter. She can pretend, for a while, that it isn’t real.

“Yes,” Mary agrees, allowing herself to smile. “I’m home.”

* * *

By the time they finally return to the business of Meredith Bly, Mary is surprised Jack hasn’t had a conniption.

“All summer,” he declares, slamming a heavily-marked newspaper on his desk. “I have been fielding inquiries for you _all summer._ You do realize there’s a strike going on?”

Of course Mary does; it’s all Mila has been able to talk about since she got back. On July 7 — the same day, coincidentally, that Mary found herself engaged — 60,000 cloakmakers walked out of her shop. They’ve been protesting throughout New York for the last two months, and the city has been on fire with it.

Mary had feared the absence of Meredith Bly’s coverage of this strike would make them irrelevant. Instead, the case seems to be the opposite.

“You’ve got at least ten magazines who want you. _The New York Call, Jewish Daily, Socialist Gazette_ — hell, _The Outlook_ mentioned your name just last week!”

 _“The Outlook,”_ Mila echoes, caressing the name like a prayer. _“Oy,_ what a _mechaieh!”_

Jack passes them a stack of envelopes bound neatly with string and pressed into a pile. “You've got your work cut out for you, he declares, and smiles a slow, wicked smile, as if the notion delights him. Maybe it’s the thought of Mary and Mila agonizing over their typewriter, or just how his reputation will grow with more publicity for Meredith Bly. “Get writing!”

“Sometimes I feel like that man thinks he’s our boss,” Mila remarks once they’re back at the cottage, pouring over their stacks of requests.

“That’s the wonderful thing about being a writer,” Mary replies. “We get to be our own bosses!”

Mila lets out a shrill, delighted laugh. “Imagine that!”

They have a backlog of articles they need to write, from various magazines eager to get them on their payrolls. As a free agent, Meredith Bly is conscripted to no single publication. This allows them to bounce their name around as they please, getting fresh eyes upon each article they put out. Their reports on strike activities (which Mila’s heavily involvement in allows them to get an inside scoop) make the front page of union magazines, while they even get a few reports on factory conditions and workers rights in a few more general publications. Having their work printed in widely-read magazines not only spreads their message, but enhances their reputation in journalistic circles. When they settle a stack of articles on his desk at the end of the week, Jack is practically tapdancing with glee. Their take on the strikes is, apparently, invaluable — and Mila has got more than enough to say.

As always, Mary’s job is writing. She transforms Mila’s horror stories about factory conditions into striking, poignant tales; she spins her words, emotions and thoughts, into poetry. Mila is more removed from the artistic side of the equation. Her job remains as it always was: she attends strikes, works with her union, organizes more protests… and tells Mary about all of it.

Mila’s fire never dies. When she speaks about the strikes, passion spills from her voice, so raw that Mary feels she could drown in it. It’s her job to channel every bit of that emotion onto paper.

 _Her job._ This is what she clings to, what she forces herself to remember. Working distracts her from everything else. Throwing all her energy into writing, and into Mila, keeps her mind away from home and the preparations slowly taking shape there.

So, Mary devotes herself to writing as if she’s never had anything else.

And Mila… Mila talks.

She cracks jokes in the afternoons, stripping off her coat and shoes after a long day at work. She whispers details over her shoulder while Mary is hunched at the typewriter, working fervently on their next article. She shares secrets over tea in the tiny kitchen, a plate of cookies between them, steaming cups held in their palms.

"As a child I used to climb all the way up to the roof of the tenement and look up at the stars, just to... talk,” she confides, voice low and quiet. She does not look at Mary; her attention is focused on the tea in her hands. She stirs in a cube of sugar, and twirls the liquid with her spoon. “I'd pour my heart out to them. Always _why, why, why_ \-- why are we so hungry? Why are we poor? Suffering? Alone? Why don't we have what others have? And then I realized… it doesn’t have to be this way. There is no reason I shouldn’t have freedom or happiness simply because I was born poor. We live in a society that keeps its boot on the back of the lower class, forcing it to remain down. Society mandates that my future should be dark. There is nothing fair about that." An odd expression flickers across her face. It is thoughtful, almost wistful. "I think that was the moment that I began to want things.”

 _You deserve it,_ Mary has to stop herself from saying. _You deserve everything._

“Your future isn’t dark, Mila,” she says. “You’ve got the world in front of you.”

“Sure. I’m staring out at it from a factory window.” She purses her lips, frowning down at her cup. It seems like it’s a challenge for her not to push the drink aside in frustration. “It just… makes me so angry. You understand, don’t you? I know I’ve got a temper, it’s the worst thing about me… but how can anyone _not_ be angry? It isn’t _fair.”_

“Nothing about it is fair.” Mary reaches across the table and takes Mila’s hand before she can think better of it. Immediately, a hint of tension fades from the other girl’s shoulders. “Isn’t that the reason we’re writing?”

Mila stares at her for a long moment, lips pursed, brow furrowed. Her thumb brushes gently over Mary’s knuckles, tracing her pale skin. A frown twitches across her face, but it’s followed by something more confident. Her uncertainty fades away; she nods to herself. When she looks up at Mary, she is still solemn, but there’s a steely determination in her eyes.

“I want you to come with me tomorrow night.”

Mary draws back, confused. “What?”

“As of tomorrow, the Great Revolt —“ (This is the name Meredith Blu have to the cloakmaker’s strike, and it’s stuck) “has been going on for two months. The ILGWU is organizing tomorrow night. I want to be there.” She tilts her head up. “I want you there with me.”

“Well, I’ve never…”

Mary has never been to a strike before. She’s never stood on the frontlines. That has always been Mila’s job, Mila’s kingdom, Mila’s element. Mary’s only taste of a strike came during that carriage ride, so long ago. Since her father forbid her from stepping into danger, she’s always obeyed him. Mila is the warrior; Mary just writes about her conquests.

The idea of seeing a strike for herself is _thrilling._

She knows she would be completely out of her element, but she’s felt like an outsider for too long. Even serving as one of the “Voices of The Movement”, Mary is still far removed from the movement itself. She’s like a theatre critic who’s never seen a show. She’s writing about something she has never witnessed, and can not understand.

She promised her father. It’s a vow she’s held herself to for a very long time.

She listened to her father, and yet he still betrayed her. He traded her like a piece of cattle. He gave her away.

Her father does not deserve her blind obedience.

“Yes,” she says, and Mila’s face light up. “Yes, I will. I will go with you.”

Mila’s smile smothers the tiny flame of guilt that burns at the edge of Mary’s conscience.

* * *

That night, Mary hides her time until the rest of the house has settled down for the night. Her mother takes a nightcap and wanders off to bed; her father retreats to his study with brandy and paperwork, not to be seen until the early hours of the morning. She listens to the pitter-pattern of maids’ footsteps outside her door grown fainter, until they disappear entirely. She waits for the sound of the servants’ quarters door to close before heaving a sigh of relief.

Mary pulls on a jacket, her gloves, and walks straight out of the house.

Maybe someone sees her. She can’t be sure, but forces herself not to think about it. Until now, she’s been far more subtle about her extracurricular exploits, but she reminds herself that it no longer matters. Her parents have already punished her in the worst way that they can, and betrayed her on top of that. What they think of her now makes no difference.

For mid-October, the night is chilly. Wind whips through the strands of Mary’s carefully-crafted updo. It chills her cheeks, drying out her lips and stinging her eyes. She squints against it, pulling her coat tighter around her. Suddenly she is grateful for the gloves.

Mila is waiting, just as she said she’d be, outside the cottage.

“You made it out,” she says. “I was worried.”

Mary smiles. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

They creep out of the gardens, down the road, away from the residential streets. As soon as they’re back in familiar city territory, Mila’s steps grow more confident; Mary falters a few paces behind.

They have to take a streetcar down to the protest. The whole ride, Mary feels like she’s buzzing. Adrenaline and anxiety are a heady cocktail; not twenty minutes out of the house, and she feels drunk. If Mila notices her nerves, she doesn’t say anything, but Mary thinks Mila is too caught up in her own anticipation to notice much else.

When they pull up to the factory… well, it’s not like anything she expected.

Torches burn like dying stars, blazing across the streets with vengeance. The entire night is cast in crimson. It illuminates the workers crowded along the sidewalks; men, woman, and even children, a teeming mass of humanity. There must be hundreds of them here. They are all gathered, some in clusters, some losing themselves to the crowds. Most hold their signs at their sides, no longer bothering to raise them when daylight has taken with it anyone who might see. The truly furious  _(wild,_ Mary cannot help thinking, with their contorted faces and twisted scowls, _like feral animals)_ still raise their signs and bellow at the police officers who remain to guard the demonstration. For the most part, however, these people just look tired. They have been here for a very long time, and they are ready to go home.

“They’ve been striking nonstop since yesterday morning,” Mila murmurs. “Then all today. Things haven’t died down, so it seems like they’ll be here all night, as well.”

It is at once everything Mary remembers from that day in the street, and nothing like it at all. This is a different time, a different world. The comfort and safety of a closed carriage is nothing more than a dream.

There is something exhausted about this — equally driven, but weary as well. These are worldworn people, used to hard work; yet there is hardship beyond human tolerance, and they have reached that limit. They are tired; but they are resolute. All they want is what they deserve. They are determined to stay until they get it.

Is this what strikes look like, when the cameras go away and the sun flees in favor of night? Does the storm still rage when there is no one to witness its fury?

Mila glances at her, and for a moment Mary is terrified she will ask her if she is okay — because she doesn’t _know,_ and cannot honestly say that she is. Mila makes no move to do so, however. She just seizes hold of Mary’s hand, and drags her towards the crowd.

They weave through the people, many of them sitting in small groups, clusters of friends and family. Mothers bounce their children on their shoulders; girls and men doze in each others’ laps.

Mila stops when they reach a congregation of women in the center of the crowd. Some of them sit as well, but most are kept busy. They are arranging trays of food, folding blankets in massive stacks, and mixing drinks in tin pots. Several are standing and discussing something intently. These women are hunched together, brows furrowed, murmuring under their breath; Mary immediately knows that these are Mila’s people, the ones she works with every day. They all wear sashes proclaiming themselves to be members of the International Ladies' Garment Workers' Union.

“Mila,” says one of the strikers when she catches sight of them. Mila claps the girl on the arm, unhesitating and familiar.

“Sarah. I couldn’t get here sooner. Will it last all night?”

Sarah is tall and broad shouldered, with dark brows and an angular face. She doesn’t even seem to register Mila’s hand on her arm, and Mary feels a stab of something that should not be guilt. “They’re not leaving. The ones who won’t stay the night have gone home already. Everyone here is determined to last it out.”

Mila frowns. “They won’t accomplish anything by exhausting themselves. They need sleep. Food, water, a roof over their heads. They can’t stay here forever.”

“They’re determined to outlast,” Sarah replies, shaking her head.

“We’ve been supplying sandwiches and coffee to as many people as we can,” another girl speaks up. “Now we’re focused on passing out blankets. It’s going to be a long night.”

Mila nods, the expression on her face sharpening. This is the moment Mary sees a change in her; she is no longer an eighteen year old girl, determined to fight for her rights. Mila’s eyes dart around like a director taking in her stage. Cogs turn in her head, more efficient than any machine.

“Right, blankets. They need to go to the families first, of course, to the women and children. Keep everyone as warm as possible, tonight is only supposed to get colder. Hot drinks are good, as much as we have, especially coffee. And pillows, do we have those?”

“We couldn’t get any,” someone replies. “Few people are willing to give those up.”

Mila rolls her eyes. “When are they ever? Use blankets as pillows then, if you’ve got to. Save our resources.”

“If only there were more cloaks around,” Sarah comments wryly. “We could use some right now.”

Mila laughs -- a sharp, short thing, like a branch falling onto a tin roof. It is not the laugh Mary knows; then again, this she does not know this Mila either. It almost feels like she is looking at a stranger; she has never met her, never seen someone with as much fire and steel in her eyes. She is a stranger. This is a different Mila altogether.

“Right then,” Mila says as her sisters hoist sandwiches and blankets into their arms. She turns to Mary, as if she’s just remembered her presence. “Our job to distribute, then. Let’s go.”

Mary finds herself with a tray of sandwiches in her arms, and gets to work. It is overwhelming at first. She does not know who she should give food to, who needs it most, who does not. After a few moments of uncertainty, however, her way becomes clear. The people who stare up at her with hungry eyes are the ones who accept sandwiches gratefully; those who don’t even acknowledge her obviously are too occupied to eat. Common sense at work.

Mary presses her last sandwich into the hands of a boy who can be no older than twelve, and looks down to find an empty tray. A feeling of satisfaction overcomes her. Somehow, in this world where she is so out of place, she’s managed to make herself useful. Looking around, the rally no longer seems so threatening to her, so foreign. It almost reminds her of springtime picnics in the park. Something about it seems… right.

That’s when the sirens start.

The first wail is so loud that Mary almost jumps out of her skin. The empty sandwich tray clatters to the ground, and she scrambles to pick it up. When she regains her footing, her eyes land on several new police cars who’ve just drawn up to the top of the street.

 _“A chorbn!”_ a man near her exclaims. “It’s the police!”

A murmur of anticipation runs through the crowd, apprehension coursing just beneath its surface. Mary sees people around her tense up. Mothers pull children closer to their breasts, or tuck them in front of them, as if their presence can serve as a cloak of protection. Men ball their fists; women square their shoulders.

They’re ready for a fight, she realizes. At once, everything she’s ever written about strikebreakers and police action during protests flashes back into her head. She’s heard a thousand of these stories; none of them have ended well.

Those are just the ones that make the news, though, of course. Not all encounters with police end like that. You’re bound to only hear about the bad ones, because those are what the public will be interested in reading. Surely every encounter between the police and strikers doesn’t end with violence.

Still, Mary feels her own anxiety heighten. Before she knows what she’s doing, she is weaving her way though the crowd, eyes searching out the one person she wants to protect.

Mila is right where Mary knew she would be: on the front lines.

“Those _mamzers!”_ she spits, fury painting her voice dark red. “They’re doing this now because they’re cowards! They don’t want the publicity daylight brings! They don’t want to be seen!”

She is standing right at the edge of the crowd, in full view of the policemen as they step out of their vehicles. Suddenly, Mary is seized with an icy fear for Mila’s safety. She reaches out, intent on pulling her a few steps back; but as soon as her hand lands on Mila’s shoulder she spins around, eyes large and wild.

“What —“ she gasps, but then registers the familiar face. “Mary! What are you trying to do?”

Mary doesn’t raise her voice; she refuses to be affected by the increasing tension of the crowd around her. “Mila,” she says, “is this about to turn dangerous?”

Mila stares at her for an agonizing second, before her lips purse. “Stay towards the center of the crowd. Not the back, not the sides. Try to be near a quick exit if you can.”

“Mila —“ Mary exclaims, but another one of Mila’s union comrades has caught her attention. She spins around, and Mary loses her once more.

She’s in over her head, and she knows it. Mila promised this would be a peaceful demonstration; Mary did not slip out tonight to wind up in the middle of a police riot. _Mila said it would be okay…_

But Mila can’t see the future.

The police line up in front of the jeering crowd, and an icicle of alarm stabs through Mary’s abdomen. Compared to the strikers, these men look like titans. They are armed with riot gear, batons and weapons. A few men are on horses. Some have their hands on their waists, as if reaching for their pistols.

Mary makes no move to do what Mila told her to. She remains on the front lines, Mila within her reach. She can see the other girl’s back heaving, shoulders tense with anticipation.

“This is your last warning,” the police chief bellows over the buzz of the crowd. “Everyone clear the streets immediately.”

No one moves. A few men shout insults back at him. The tension in the air is cloying, smothering, thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Everyone clear the streets or we will be forced to remove you!”

Still, no one moves. A woman near her shouts a curse so vicious that Mary’s skin prickles.

“This is your final warning!”

Then, it happens. From somewhere in the crowd, a man curses — and hurls a brick at the officer.

Mary does not have time to catch her gasp before the police are suddenly charging forwards, straight into the crowd. They do not hesitate against the wall of people. The sea is parted with the aid of clubs, batting protesters aside as if they are no more than balloons; simple nuisances that stand in their way. Mary sees a man knocked to the pavement by a police officer twice his size. When someone else is thrown into her, she stumbles back, barely able to keep her balance. A chorus of screams ring through the air. Mary spots Sarah in a tussle with an officer who has her by the arms, until she is hurled forcefully to the ground.

 _Mila,_ she thinks, desperate.

It is impossible not to find Mila in a crowd. Even if her red hair didn’t mark her out, her energy makes her unmistakable. Nothing about her fades into the mass of people around her. Instead, to Mary’s eyes, she glows. The peculiar music of Mila rises above the chaotic symphony. Mary is convinced she could pick it out anywhere.

As her fellow workers scramble around her, Mila manages to avoid the blows. She ducks a tussling cop and striker, sidesteps two fleeing workers, and manages not to lose her balance when a man is thrown at her feet. She is choreographed and steadfast, a graceful dance that Mary never imagined witnessing.

Mila snatches up one of the wooden boxes that her union was using to carry blankets. She does not hesitate before turning it over and hoisting herself into the air.

“See this, now!” she declares. “Unjust persecution of the working people!”

Mary’s heart leaps into her throat. For one awful moment, she is blinded with terror. There is no way to comprehend _Mila,_ standing high above the chaos of the crowd, bellowing down at them like an avenging angel. Mila, lifting herself above the scourge. Mila, in more danger than ever.

She only takes two steps forward before Mila is hurled to the ground.

Mary does not realize what has happened until the awful clatter of a body meeting pavement stones reaches her ears. The man behind Mila took her by surprise. He is not an officer (or if he is, he is out of uniform); Mary could only describe him as a brute. He towers over tiny Mila, but hat did not stop him from throwing her off the box, or aiming a kick at her while she’s on the ground.

Mila curls in on herself as a boot connects with her abdomen. She lets out a grunt as a kick slams into her head; her skull slams back against the street with an awful sound.

Later, Mary could never explain what possessed her; she never would have imagined, never even entertained that she was capable of violence. Yet the moment she sees Mil being beaten, another force overcomes her entirely. It is stronger than her, fiercer, more dangerous than anything she’s ever known.

She finds something heavy in her hands, and lunges.

Just as Mila was not expecting the thug, the thug was not expecting Mary. He has no way of seeing the wooden box before it shatters from impact with his skull. A hundred wooden shards rain to the ground; the man himself is a second behind.

As soon as he is down, Mary doesn’t hesitate. She reaches Mila, hauls her to her feet, and runs.

She does not see the stain of blood on her hands until they have already left the strike far behind them.

* * *

Doctor Devernay is used to making house calls, but not usually at midnight. Fortunately, the Merran family name — or perhaps their paycheck — inspires the doctor to make an exception.

Mary would call them herself, but she refuses to let anyone else look after Mila. As soon as they’ve gotten through the doors to her home, she orders Riley, their butler, to place an urgent call to the doctor. The young scullery maid, Margaret, is enlisted to help carry Mila up the stairs, which is no small task. By the time they reached the streetcar, she was a dead weight in Mary’s arms. It was all Mary could do to keep her upright until they made it back home; now that they’re here, the last of the fight seems to have drained out of Mila.

(No sentence has ever sounded so _wrong.)_

Mary’s own room is made up already, so that’s where the injured girl goes. She is stripped of her boots and coat by Mary’s careful hands before being tucked into bed. Then, there is nothing more to do besides wait for the doctor to arrive.

Doctor Devernay steps into the house a little after midnight. He is still in his pajamas, a robe thrown on over them, and a white coat on top of that. Nothing about the aging doctor, with his hunched stature and thinning hair, could be called intimidating -- but the black bag in his hands is somehow too daunting for Mary to look at. She holds Mila’s hand as the doctor sets up in her bedroom. Only when he begins his examination does she step outside. Perhaps she is selfish, but she cannot stand to see it.

Everything about Mila like this is _wrong._ Mila is not meant to be still and silent; she is not meant to lie in bed, a frail, broken thing.

She stops at the end of the hallway, and turns to face her closed bedroom door. She cannot be in the room, but she can’t leave Mila alone, either. Every part of her rebels against it.

She exhales a shuddering sigh, and glances down at herself; her breath catches in her throat. The blouse she wore is ruined, and her suit jacket is no better. Crimson soaks through the peach-colored velvet, imbuing a stain that will never wash out. It’s on her hands. It’s under her nails. She is covered in the very thing Mila needs to stay alive.

Mary wants to vomit. She scrambles out of the jacket, tossing it in a heap in the corner of the hall. The maids will hopefully take care of it before her parents see (Mary can only imagine the reaction her mother would have to her coming home covered in blood).

Her hands are another problem. She retreats into the sanctuary of the bathroom. Under the glaring lights, she can see every drop of blood that soils her skin. She scrubs and scrubs, until her skin has been scraped raw. When she looks up into the mirror, she sees a haggard phantom; her own death mask staring back at her, a cruel mockery of the girl who crept out of the house earlier tonight.

She does not know this girl. She has never seen her in her life.

Mary exhales, and feels the breath flood out of her lungs. It fogs the glass; through it, she sees her reflection’s chest heaving. This is where she is, she reminds herself. This is her, this is now. She cannot afford to run away from it.

She steps out of the bathroom, extinguishes the lights behind her, and shuts the door. When she turns around, her father is staring at her from the end of the hallway.

A hand flies to her mouth to silence her gasp. It takes her father only a few steps to reach her; body tense, feet rooted to the floor, Mary cannot move away. When he stops in front of her, she cannot see his face. The dark hallway casts shadows over them both; she hopes it obscures his view of her as much as it does of him.

It takes a few seconds to recognize what she can see besides his facial expression: his terse posture, and the weary slump to his shoulders. His sigh echoes through the hallway. Mary steels herself against it.

“Is Mother still asleep?” she asks. Her voice sounds foreign to her, an unprecedented disruption of the silent night.

Another hint of exhaustion creeps into her father’s figure. “Yes,” he replies, and allows the word to linger between them for a moment. When he finally speaks, there is no surprise in his voice. “You’ve been doing this for a long time, haven’t you?”

Just like that, the game is up. The curtain of half-truths and secrecy that has existed between them all year disintegrates. The New Mary, whom her father has never met, is laid bare to him. She is angry, frightened, and stronger.

“I have,” The New Mary replies. “Did you really not know?”

“I suspected. For a long time.”

Her father is not much taller than her, Mary realizes. Especially like this -- when they are both nothing more than shadows, face-to-face yet invisible to each other -- he does not look like the titan of her childhood. He is a man: aging, tired, and guilty. He is only a man.

“This is the first strike I’ve gone to,” she says, and the truth on her lips feels like a balm. “I promised you I wouldn’t go.”

“You’ve broken that promise.”

“You broke one to me.” Her voice is like a knife. It cuts through the last shred of illusion that remains between them. Mary feels it sever. At once, something vital is lost forever. The relationship she held dearest is dealt an unmitigated blow, and cannot sustain it.

For a long moment, her father is silent. He does not move; he does not breathe. Mary does the same.

Finally he answers, in a voice so low that Mary could very well have told herself she never heard it at all: “I only want you to be safe.”

Something burns at the backs of Mary’s eyes. Fiercely, she shoves the emotion aside. “In six months, my safety will be my husband’s concern.” You will be relieved of the burden of your daughter. “Until then, all I ask is that my safety be left up to me.”

Her father reaches out to her. Mary takes a step back, out of his reach. She cannot bear the weight of his touch, even less than she can bear the broken girl lying behind one of these closed doors. Her father, to his credit, doesn’t try again. The hand falls back to his side. An instant later, his head turns away from her.

“I will not stop you,” is all he says; then he turns away, and is gone.

Mary watches him retreat to the end of the hallway. Her parents’ bedroom door clicks shut behind him. She takes a deep breath, smooths down her skirt with stinging hands, and makes her way back to her own bedroom.

The doorknob turns a moment before she can grasp it. The doctor steps out, unsurprised to find Mary waiting on the other side. The candlelight from the room casts odd shadows across his weathered face.

“She is concussed and exhausted,” he tells Mary, voice low. “Her head has been stitched. Now she needs to rest.”

Mary bows her head low and thanks the doctor. She presses payment into his hands -- and a little extra, to keep the visit quiet. This is not his first late-night visit; he understands perfectly. More instructions are given, on how Mila should heal, and what Mary can do to help her. As he makes his way down the stairs, he wishes her, “Goodnight, Miss Mary.” Mary forces a smile, and watches him until he goes. She bids goodnight to the few servants she’s woken with her midnight escapade, soliciting promises from them similar to the doctor’s. They’ll keep them, if they value their jobs.

It takes her a few more seconds to gather enough courage to enter Mila’s room.

The door opens with a low, wooden creak that seems to echo throughout the house. Other than that, the room is quiet; even the sound of breathing does not cut through the veil of silence that shrouds the room. It is brighter in here than the rest of the house. Candlelight dances off the walls, making the room feel warm instead of ominous. Maybe the familiar surroundings of her own room is a blessing, but Mary can breathe again.

"There you are," whispers Mila.

There is a weakness to her voice that is uncharacteristic, a slight tremor which causes Mary's chest to tighten. She crosses the room in a few long strides, reaching where Mila is spread out in her bed. The girl's limbs are tucked beneath her, long legs and bony arms hidden beneath the heavy blanket. All that is visible of her is her face; hair clings in scarlet wisps to her sweaty forehead. She looks pale as the pillow beneath her (fresh, to replace the blood-stained one). Mila's eyes follow her as she sits down on the edge of the bed, immediately moving to take her hand.

"I'm sorry. I was held up. The doctor wasn't too rough with you, I hope?"

"He was real nice." A tiny smile plays across Mila's lips. It's so inappropriate for the situation that Mary could almost laugh. "I've never met a doctor so nice."

Unwillingly, Mary's mind flashes to Mila from another time, Mila before her -- sick in bed, caught up in fever dreams and crying out for people who weren't there. Had the doctors been kind to her then? Had her family stayed by her side the entire time, or was she forced to fight for her life alone? Could the sickness which had caused the loss of her hair -- a sacrifice Mila bemoaned at the time -- also have served to strengthen her?

Now, Mila looks as if she does belong in a bed. She is a small figure amidst the vast comforters, and she seems every bit as fragile as the stitches on her head. Mary's hand wanders from Mila's shoulder up to her scalp, where she inspects the doctor's work carefully.

"Good. Hopefully it won't scar."

"It's in my hair anyway. It won't matter." Mila gives a soft chuckle before cutting off, face screwing up in pain. "Ooh, I have a headache."

"You should get some rest," Mary suggests. Mila's body shifts in bed; unbelieveably, she seems to attempt to sit up, before her body gives out on her and she slumps back again. "What are you doing?"

"I don't like this bed," mutters Mila. "It's too big. I feel like I'm sinking."

Mary huffs. What more could Mila want?

"I'll get in with you," she says at once, not even thinking until the words have left her lips. Her mouth clicks shut in surprise, but Mila considers this for a moment before letting out a hum. She inches over in bed, creating just enough space for Mary to slide in next to her.

When the girl does, she is immediately struck by the heat radiating from Mila's body. She almost feels feverish -- not quite, but it's close enough that Mary doesn't hesitate to pull her close in order to feel her bare flesh. She is relieved not to feel the telltale burning beneath her skin, but Mila hums in content and unexpectedly nestles closer. For a split second, Mary goes still -- then she gives in, relaxing beneath Mila and beginning to run her hands in a soothing arc up and down her back.

"How do you feel?"

"Dizzy," Mila replies. There is a slight slur to her words; Mary hopes it is from exhaustion. "Achy. Like I've got a hole in my skull."

"You came close enough." Mary pulls Mila tighter against her, and tries not to think of Mila’s head smashing into the pavement. Instead, she focuses on the steady rhythm of a second heartbeat against her own breast. Mila's breath warms her collarbone, and her curls tickle Mary's chin. Large blue eyes watch her with an intensity that shouldn't be possible, not with a head injury and the late hour. Mila is, as always, incongruous.

She opens her mouth, but closes it again as if giving up on her words halfway. Mary shushes her, running a hand along the slope of her shoulders. "Shh. I'm here. Get some rest for now."

Mila's eyes droop further, but she doesn't break her stare. "You'll be here when I wake up?"

"Of course." Mary bites her tongue, but she is unable to keep her next words from slipping out. "I couldn't ever leave you. Even if I wanted to."

A smile creeps across Mila’s lips. It is impossibly warm, impossibly affectionate. It makes Mary feel like she could fly.

"You know something funny?” Mila whispers, just as her eyes slide shut. “Sometimes... I think I could be in love with you."


	9. chapter ten

The next few months are such a whirlwind that Mary barely has the time to think.

She is not able to dwell on Mila’s words from that awful night; she wouldn’t allow herself to, even if she had the time. There are articles to write, though, and strikes to organize. There is always a strike in New York City, and even after the end of the Great Revolt, Meredith Bly covers as many as she can.

A part of Mary is furious with Mila for insisting on returning to the front lines. Even with what happened at the nighttime protest, Mila refused to be slowed down at all. The day after her injury, she went in to work, despite all of Mary’s protests. That night, she had another meeting with her union.

Nothing is capable of slowing Mila down. That’s not a surprise, but to Mary, some of Mila’s _work ethic_ seems like headstrong recklessness.

“You put yourself on the front lines every single time,” she tries arguing once. “What if something worse happened? What if you were hurt, and no one helped you? What if —“

She stops short of saying _died,_ because that is an idea she cannot voice, or even imagine. Mila doesn’t have to hear it. She sees through Mary as easily as glass.

“I would rather be killed speaking my beliefs than die voiceless.”

Mary shakes her head in disbelief. “How can you say that?”

“Easily,” Mila replies. “The truth is always easiest to say.”

_I love you. You frighten me. The world is a cruel, confusing place. Your vision of freedom will never be the same as mine. I can’t understand you. I wish I could believe they way you do. I am afraid. I love you._

None of these truths are easy at all.

Only at moments like this is Mary unable to keep from flashing back to the words that live forever at the back of her mind: _“I think I could be in love with you.”_

Mila was half-delirious. This is what she insists to herself, and whether it’s true or not, it’s what she needs to believe. Never in right mind would Mila say the words _“I love you”_ to her. If Mila really said that, and meant it, it validates the feelings that have found home inside Mary’s own chest. It makes them real; this entire thing becomes suddenly real. Mary cannot bear it. She can not tolerate it.

It is easier to focus on the world around her, and remember exactly where she is needed.

After the Great Revolt, the dock workers rebel. After them, the streetcars shut down for a day. After them, another factory walks out. As soon as they’ve returned from their work stations, it’s another, on the other side of Manhattan.

Meredith Bly’s work is never done.

Mila is… thriving. She braces herself against the winter air with flushed cheeks, a bounce in her step. She banters with Jack over his desk, and laughs as she strides out of the factory arm in arm with her friends. Mary, on the occasional afternoons she waits outside the factory doors for her, feels like an outsider.

Mila’s mother is in good health. Her father got promoted in his job. Her brother just started seventh grade. Work is fine, the union is burgeoning, and writing articles is just the distraction Mila needs from the monotony of day-to-day. When she finds her in the cabin at the end of the day, Mila always looks more alive than Mary can remember feeling in a long time.

She loves seeing Mila happy, but it would be nice if she could feel the same.

She does not know what to call the weariness that has crept into her bones. It is not the same exhaustion that weighed on her father’s shoulders in that dark hallway; but sometimes she wonders if it’s not so far off. They’ve always been so alike, father and daughter. Mary _understands,_ much as she wishes she didn’t, the guilt her father feels.

She doesn’t know what she would call her own burden. It is not defeat; it is not resignation. She refuses to let it be so.

Yet when she looks to the future ahead, all she sees is gray. She is so very tired.

The night of her parents’ annual Christmas ball, her mother presents her with a brand new evening gown, made of white silk and soft tulle. She despises it, because she knows what it is; a wedding dress, before she must become a bride. Still, she dons the dress and wears it to the party. She endures the “oohs” and “aahs” of her aunts and the other vapid heiresses who once occupied so much of her social life. They preen over her, caressing her dress and admiring the intricate arrangement of her hair.

“Just wait for spring,” they declare. “What a lovely bride you’ll be!”

Mary has heard the words a dozen, a thousand times before. They play on an endless loop through her dreams, never allowing her a moment’s rest. Yes, she _will_ be the loveliest bride in the world. After all, what bride is ever truly happy?

“Her wedding dress will be five times as beautiful as this,” her mother boasts, smoothing Mary’s sleeve as if the arm belonged to her. “We were thinking of a Lucile original. Her specialty is eveningwear, but her wedding gowns are absolutely _divine…”_

She would have avoided Alexander for the entire night, and for the first few hours is successful. Towards the end of the night, however, a slower waltz begins to play, and a stern look from his mother sends him across the room towards her. Propriety demands that Mary does not refuse him; her mother is even more convincing.

“Talk to me,” he beseeches as they twirl, keeping his voice low enough to belong only to her. “You can’t avoid me forever.”

“I can try,” she replies. “Even after we’re married, nothing says I’ll ever have to be in the same room as you.”

“What about children?”

Mary draws back as if she’s been slapped. Alexander realizes his blunder, and scrambles hastily to make up for it. “I’m sorry. I would never force you to do a thing you didn’t want to.”

“Except get married.”

“You know as well as I do,” he replies, pulling her back in, “that is not up to me.”

They resume their empty steps, and Mary allows herself to be led alone. She reviles every second of it.

It is unfair to hate Alexander for something outside of his control, but perhaps that makes her a cruel person. She cannot help the disgust that spurs in her stomach whenever she thinks of him. Alexander, her friend since childhood, the irreverent boy who pulled her hair in church and exchanged barbs over glasses of champagne, was someone she cared deeply for. Now, their relationship has been ruined by something outside of their control.

Mary cares deeply for Alexander, but she cannot imagine spending the rest of her life with him.

She retreats from the party early, and races to her room. She cannot tear the dress fast enough; one of those wretched, lacy sleeves is torn right off. She glares at it on the ground, and stomps her slippered foot down on it.

As same as the future seems, Mila is the sun that illuminated her present days. Even with the wedding looming closer, and preparations growing more at hand, Mila is always there. Mary never has to look far to find her glow, and basking in it makes her feel as if she, too, still has somewhere she belongs.

Christmas Day is a Sunday, and Mary spends it in the cottage, writing. She does not care to see anyone or be seen; so she is surprised when Mila bustles in a bit after noon. Snow powders her dark coat, making her firey hair shimmer. She carries a newspaper under one arm, and a paper-bound package in her hands.

“As soon as I saw the fire burning, I knew I’d find you here,” she beams; then she thrusts the package forward. “For you.”

Mary blinks. It takes her a moment to recognize the gift for what it is. Her mouth drops open, and she cannot contain her stammer of surprise.

“Oh, no, Mila, I couldn’t… you didn’t have to get me anything.” Money is so scarce for Mila as it is, and she stretched herself to buy her family presents this Hanukkah. She even gave Mary a tiny gelt coin; when Mary looked startled, she laughed and called it an “act of charity”. That Mila would stretch herself so much to buy a whole Christmas present for Mary is startling, to say the least. She didn’t have to. There was no reason she should have.

Still, Mila just smiles and shakes her head, as if this was the reaction she expected from Mary all along. “Relax! I’ve got three _shiksas_ I’m close enough to buy Christmas gifts for, and the other two are Italian. They’re so Catholic, I’m not sure they even believe in presents.” She holds the box out again. “Make my day, Mary. Take it.”

After a heartbeat’s pause, Mary takes the box from Mila’s hands. “Merry Christmas,” she says, and the other girl beams.

Wrapped in brown parchment (which Mila has decorated with stars and heart) is a small book. It’s pages are dog-eared; it’s spine is worn and creased in places. The colors in some areas of the cover have gone dull, as if reverent fingers ran over the image too many times.

“It’s used already,” Mila says. “You won’t hate me for it?”

Mary holds the book in her hands and frowns. The familiar cover of Anne of Green Gables stares up at her.

“It came out a few years ago,” she says, and laughs. “I haven’t always been so good at English. I used to read every book I could get my hands on. Tate got this for my sixteenth birthday, and she…” Mila trails off. When Mary glances over, she is blushing, fighting back a smile. “Anne reminded me of myself,” she confesses, and plucks at her curls. “The red hair, you know?”

Mary grins. She can certainly see how young Mila related to the spirited, optimistic Anne Shirley.

“It’s been my favorite book for years, but… I thought you’d like it more than me. You’ve probably already read it, but… maybe you can look at it on your bookshelf and always think, “Mila gave me that book!” Maybe in fifty years, when we’re both old ladies, you can see the book all worn out and yellow, and remember me.”

Mary takes a long look at Mila before rising to her feet. She crosses the room in a few unhesitant paces, and pulls her into a hug.

“This,” she says, “is the loveliest present anyone’s ever gotten me.”

She can not see Mila smile, but she feels it against her shoulder. “I’m so glad,” she whispers, and hugs Mary back.

* * *

“You know, this means I have something new to call you,” Mary remarks later on. When Mila stares at her, question plain on the blank slate of her face, Mary smirks. _“Shirley.”_

Mila lets out a bubbling peal of laughter. _“Never_ call me —“

“I don’t know. I think I like it.”

”Don’t you dare!”

“So, if you’re Anne Shirley, does that make me Diana Barry?”

Mila’s eyes sparkle; Mary searcbes her brain for a sight that’s ever been more captivating, and comes up blank. 

“Alright, then,” Mila replies with a firm nod of her head. “I can live with you being my Diana.”

* * *

 

By late January, plans for the wedding are in full swing. It is all anyone can talk about at home. Mary’s mother is a flurry of energy; a constant stream of aunts file in and out of the house, gossiping about florists and caterers, dress designers and musicians. Preparing a society wedding is a complicated thing, and it requires months of deliberations beforehand.

Mary seized upon escape any chance she gets. These chances grow fewer and fewer as the month winds on.

“Mary, come look at these catalogues,” her mother says. “What do you think of this dress?”

“Mary, darling, for the cake, would you rather cream cheese frosting, or something lighter? You’ve got to watch your figure on your wedding night!”

“Mary, do you prefer dahlias or peonies? Roses are traditional, but we can do so much better…”

Mary is desperate.

It is this very desperation that has her so looking forward to her plans for the last Saturday of the month. She, Mila, and Jack have made a date to lunch at Mary’s favorite cafe. Jack says he needs to talk about their latest batch of articles, but Mila will doubtless get him off track; she has countless stories about the girls at her factory, and a true gift of gab that can leave even Jack Halloran’s head spinning. Mary is counting on Mila to make this meeting pleasure instead of business. Knowing Mila, she won’t disappoint.

Her hat is on; her coat is buttoned smartly over her neat blazer-and-skirt set; she’s got her gloves on, one hand on the door, ready to face the winter chill.

The doorbell rings.

Mary goes still. Silence falls throughout the entire house for a single second. Then, it is broken by the sound of voices outside the door, and Nils the doorman’s heavy footsteps as he moves into the foyer.

Mary is too quick for poor Nils. She pulls the door open before he can even reach it, and blinks at the figures on the other side.

“Mary, my love!” Mrs. Kincaid, ever exuberant, breezes right into the house. She plants one kiss on Mary’s cheek, turning her head to reach the other. Baffled, Mary can only stand still and take it, brain struggling to catch up with _who_ has just walked into her home.

The two Kincaid girls, Elizabeth and Henrietta, bustle after their mother in a flurry of pastels and excited exclamations. Behind them trails a darker figure, almost sheepish. Alexander’s got his head bowed low; he pulls off his hat as he steps into the foyer, revealing a shock of lemon blond hair, as bright as ever. It is as much a stark contrast to his modest black suit as his family’s bright outfits are. It is as if Alexander wants to pass as a shadow on this visit, one who isn’t really here at all.

Mary manages to recover from her shock enough to speak, only after enthusiastic embraces by both Kincaid sisters. “This visit is a… wholly unexpected delight,” she manages to stammer out. “I was not aware we’d be having callers today, I was just about to go out.”

“Oh, of course, Mary dear,” Mrs. Kincaid laughs, brushing an invisible wrinkle out of the shoulder of Mary’s coat. “We’re here to call upon your mother! So much talk about wedding preparations, of course, and we’re having a dreadful time finding a caterer…”

“Won’t you join us, Mary?” Henrietta, just fifteen, speaks up. “It would be lovely to have your take on the matter. It’s your wedding, after all!”

“If I were a bride, I couldn’t stand letting anyone plan my wedding for me!” Elizabeth speaks up. “I’d want to do the whole thing myself!”

“We know you’re leaving most of the preparations up to your mother, of course — so kind of you, you know how dear Celine loves to plan these things — but it would be a delight to have you join us!” Mrs. Kincaid adds. Before Mary can even reply, she’s being clustered in on all sides. Henrietta seizes her hand, while Elizabeth presses against her shoulder. Mrs. Kincaid is right before her, impossible to escape.

“Oh, Mary? _Please —“_

Before Henrietta’s pleas can grow any more fervent, a sharper voice cuts through the din. “That’s enough,” Alexander says, finally straightening up.

Mary is struck at once by how different he looks. Something in his face is older, less a boy and more the man time will force him to become. He has not aged physically; but there is a heaviness in his eyes that was not there in the summer. He is still youthful, carelessly handsome, but there is something more… serious about him now. Something has been weighing on Alexander deeply since they last saw each other, and Mary has no doubt what it is.

Then he flashes a smile, and he is her Alex again, just for a moment. “Leave her alone. The poor woman has plans, let her enjoy them. We simply can’t disrupt her whole day.”

Henrietta juts out her lower lip — a perfect mirror of her older brother’s pout. “You’re no fun, Alex.”

“Perhaps.” Alexander takes a step forward, and holds out a hand. He’s wearing gloves, too; they are stark black, in comparison to Mary’s white. She eyes her potential rescue with suspicion.

“Where do you want to go?” he prompts. “I’ll take you there.”

At once, his mother and sisters seem to understand. They release Mary — the girls with a flutter of giggles, while Alexander’s mother casts him a stern look over her nose. In exchange, he flashes his mother that same disarming grin. “I’ll be nothing less than a gentleman. We are engaged, you know.”

“That you are,” she nods, lips turning up in a smile that does not seem convinced of its own authenticity. “Alright, take Mary our. And Alexander, don’t forget —“

She holds up a hand, but Alexander’s wink silences her. “I won’t, Mother,” he promises. “Give my future mother-in-law my kindest regards.”

Mrs. Kincaid still looks doubtful; but, with a wave of her hand, she lets him go.

The second they are out the door and free of the buzzing wedding posse, Mary can breathe a sigh of relief. It is as if a weight has been lifted off her chest. The air has ceased to be smothering. She can move again, no longer paralyzed by the bone-deep dread that comes with the word _wedding._

Even if she does have Alexander on her arm… at least she’s out of the house.

They make their way down the steps of the Merran mansion, and on to the crisp sidewalk. The Kincaid coach is still waiting at the head of the street, equipped with several sleek brown horses.

It takes Mary a second to realize Alexander expects her to get in. Only when he says, “So, where to?” And makes to lift her inside that she draws back.

“I don’t need an escort,” she answers, not bothering to keep the chill out of her voice. “I have my own ride.”

“Really? Where would that be?”

“Right here,” she retorts, and stomps her foot. Alexander lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed. Mary barely cares; and even if she did, she certainly wouldn’t change her plans for Alexander Kincaid. When he was a friend, maybe. Now that he is her fiancé, however, she refuses to allow him any more influence over her life.

Instead, she shakes of the clueless Alexander, turns on her heel and starts off down the street. It takes a few seconds for footsteps to sound after her.

“Alright! Where are we going?”

“We are not going anywhere.” She doesn’t slow. “You may as well ride home now. Or rejoin your family for or engagement party.”

“Mary —“ Alexander’s words cut off in a huff. He is exasperated; or maybe just out of breath. Mary is quick, and Alexander isn’t used to moving fast on his feet. Nonetheless, she refuses to slow down for him.

He continues trailing her for several blocks, wisely taking the hint after she refuses to respond the first few times. She wants his presence as much as she wants to hear his voice. Still, he doesn’t _leave._ For the life of her, she can’t understand why.

They’ve been walking for at least fifteen minutes, and have long since left Mary's posh Upper East Side neighborhood behind them, when she finally spins on her heel to face him. Alexander jerks to a halt too, looking at her expectantly.

“What do you want? Why are you following me? That’s very rude.”

“I’m a rude person,” he replies.

“You told your mother you’d be a gentleman.”

“I am making sure that no brute threatens you on the street,” he retorts, not flinching. “What could be more gentlemanly?”

“How about leaving me alone?” She stomps her her again, and kicks up a bit of snow with her shoe. Alexander flinches back from it.

Still, he makes no move to leave. Mary holds his gaze, and they remain frozen like that for a moment, locked in a battle where neither of them are willing to yield. Finally, Alexander sighs; his shoulders slump, making the black suit he wears look all the more grim.

“My father is back home. I can’t return there,” he replies. “And I’d rather eat a bag of arsenic than sit in a room filled with wedding plans for five minutes.”

Mary barks out a laugh before she can stop herself. “Look at that, we’ve got something in common.”

Alexander doesn’t meet her eyes. “One thing, still.”

“Oh, don’t be a sad clown.” She narrows her eyes at him, swallowing her annoyance like sour medicine. It coats her throat, nearly making her choke on the bitterness. The hurt in Alexander’s eyes is palpable; swirling pools of sadness and fury that mirror how _she_ feels so well.

Mary can not bear to see him look like that. The raw emotion cuts like a knife, far too familiar. It is as if he is seeing into her own heart.

“You think you’re the only one who lost a friend?” she demands, gritting her teeth against a sharp taste of regret. “I’ve lost a friend too. I’m not moping about it, and I certainly won’t walk around as if I’m in mourning.”

She gestures to the solid black of his suit and waistcoat, relieved only by the cream color of the shirt underneath. Even his tie is black, and, sad to say, it’s not Alexander’s color.

He squares his shoulders, as if preparing himself for a blow. “What do you want me to do, Mary?”

“I’d like you to leave me alone.”

“When I promised to escort you?” He straightens up, forcing a haphazard smile. “What kind of fiancé would I be?”

“Don’t say that,” she retorts sharply; _too_ sharp, perhaps, because Alexander draws back as if she’s cut him. She sees the hurt flash through his eyes, and it’s like a slap to her face. She doesn’t want to hurt Alexander, no matter how upset she is.

He’s never known when not to push; but it seems he’s changed in more ways than Mary realized since they last met. Alexander takes a step back, nodding his head.

“Okay, then. You’re right. I’ll do as you wish, and leave you to your afternoon.”

He takes a few steps backwards, and forces a smile onto his face. It is as fake a smile as Mary has never seen; too manufactured to belong to Alexander. Even at his most artificial, he still drops with confidence and easy charm. Nothing about him is empty; no part of his smile should look like he’d rather be crying instead.

He begins to turn, and the mask slips. It’s only a split-second falter, but Mary catches it.

She knows herself better than anyone else. Better than Alexander; than her parents; than the strangers who line up to flock to her wedding; better even than Mila and Jack, who know more of her than anyone else. Mary has gazed deep into herself, and recoiled at what she’s found. She is not a charitable person. Some days, she doubts she is a kind one.

Even so, she can not stand to see her old friend looking like a lost child.

“Do you know _Spangler’s,”_ she says abruptly, “on Eighth Street?”

Alexander stops abruptly and turns to her, eyebrow crooked. “I know _of_ it. I’ve never been there.”

“It’s one of my favorite places.” Mary presses her lips into a line, and tries not to think too hard about what she is doing. If she thinks about it, she’ll regret it. She can’t give herself the chance. “There May be an empty seat at our table… if you care to come.”

Some tension in Alexander’s face — a tension Mary hadn’t even realized was there — fades. All at once, he looks a decade younger, brighter and more familiar. This is her Alex; this is the best friend she used to have.

“I think I’d like that very much.”

* * *

 By the time they make it to _Spangler’s,_ the rest of Mary has had time to catch up with the road her tongue recklessly sped them down. As she pushes open the door, her heart thunders. The ghost of a migraine lingers at the back of her head. Her palms are sweating through her gloves. This can be nothing but a horrible mistake.

After the lengths she’s gone to in order to keep these two worlds from intersecting, she’s deliberately crossing them both. Alexander — the physical manifestation of everything she dreads about the future — is about to meet Mila and Jack — who make up Mary’s sanctuary, the refuge of work she’s thrown herself into in order to _escape._

They are two trains heading straight for each other, and Mary’s feet are glued to the tracks. All she can do is close her eyes and wait for collision.

Fortunately, the cafe isn’t crowded. They’ve chose to come at a good time, an hour before dark, in between the lunch and dinner hour. Mila gets off work at half past four, so she promised to meet them here; there is no telltale head of cheerful curls bobbing in the window today. The table at the far corner of the shop _is_ occupied, however, by a slender man in a grey waistcoat and hat, bent low over a newspaper.

The atrocious posture gives it away, even if the turned back doesn’t. Jack is waiting for her.

He has no idea that Mary’s brought along an extra guest.

Jack isn’t like Mila. He is not oblivious to all that goes on in the world of society folk; and, being a close acquaintance of the Merran family (and gifted with a reporter’s nosiness), he hears plenty about what’s happening in his boss’s home. It doesn’t help that he saw Mary’s engagement announcement plastered across the society pages.

Jack knows about the engagement, and he doesn’t like it a bit.

“There must be something you can do,” he said, the one and only time they ever spoke about it.

Mary just shrugged, frowning at the papers across Jack’s desk for an excuse not to meet his eye. “My parents are adamant that I marry Alexander. Who am I to refuse?”

“You’d be exactly the woman I know you are.”

Mary cast him a withering look from the corner of his eye, and shut down the conversation with a clipped, “If only things were so black and white.”

Jack had the good sense not to bring it up again.

So, Jack _knows._ Jack is hostile to the entire idea of a forced wedding, and anything that might have to do with it. The moment he sees Alexander trailing at Mary's heels, he’s bound to put two and two together.

It’s as if she’s throwing Alexander to a ravenous wolf. All Mary can do is pray that Jack will be merciful.

As they approach the table, Jack looks up. His eyes settle on Mary first, and he straightens up in relief; then he lands on Alexander, a few steps behind her.

“Jack,” Mary says as they reach him. “We didn’t keep you waiting long?”

Jack folds the newspaper in front of him, setting it down. His eyes are still locked on the stranger in their midst. In his designer pea coat and silk tie, Alexander stands in stark contrast to the modest little cafe. He sticks out like a crooked nail. “Not at all.”

Mary forces a smile. “This is Alexander Kincaid, whose invitation was extended at too short notice to do anything about. Alex, this is Jack Halloran.”

Something clicks in Jack’s eyes as he remembers the name. Mary lowers herself into her seat, feeling queasy.

“I know you.” Jack’s voice is cool as ice. “The fiancé.”

Alexander’s smile is painted on his face. It is a taut, stubborn thing, well-polished from two decades of feigning charm at society events. Alexander knows how to craft his mask and wear it well, but even Mary can see that Jack’s coldness gets under his skin.

Of course, he’s far too prideful to show it. He is a Kincaid, after all; more importantly, he’s Alexander.

“And you would be the editor,” he replies, sliding into a seat at the other side of the table. He leans forward on his elbows, stirring the ice cubes in the water glass. “I’ve heard a lot about you too. Funny. I thought you’d be older.”

“I’m as old as I have to be to do my job.” Now it’s Jack’s turn to grow tense. Comments about his youthfulness always get under his skin in the worst way. Alexander sees this, and seizes on it with a perverse pleasure.

“I didn’t know The Journal’s been hiring out of the cradle, is all. Good reporters are clearly getting hard to find.”

“Okay!” Mary interjects before one of her dinner companions can explode, slapping her hand down on the table. “Drinks, anyone? What does everybody want?”

Jack closes his menu and sighs. He catches Mary’s eyes across the table, and she tries to communicate a wordless admonishment. It may have been unfair of her to being Alexander along with no warning, but he doesn’t have to be cruel. Alexander doesn’t have limitless patience to begin with, and Jack could get under the skin of a marble statue.

“Ginger ale,” Jack says, not breaking eye contact with her. He sets the menu on the table deliberately. His message is loud and clear: _I’ll play nice, but I won’t like it._

Mary exhales in relief. Alexander, however, doesn’t get the memo.

“Right, well, I’ll have a scotch and soda,” he declares, apparently oblivious to the modest setting of the cafe — or the fact that it’s menus are more suited to milkshakes than malts.

“This is a dry restaurant,” Jack says flatly. Alexander claps his hands, a rictus smile stretched across his face.

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. I’ll have a very dry martini. Dry as dust. Hell, just give me gin.”

Mary purses her lips. Her instincts are all begging her to scream, but she won’t make a scene in a public restaurant. Instead, she offers the waiter a beaming smile as he bustles to their table.

“We’ll have two ginger ales, and two mugs of cocoa.”

“Right away, Miss.”

“Maybe I’d like cocoa too,” Alexander remarks, somewhat petulant, as the waiter vanishes. Mary casts him a glance from the corner of her eye.

“You wouldn’t like it here,” she assures him. “Too sweet for your taste.”

She doesn’t add that cocoa is what she and Mila have gotten every time they’ve visited this cafe. Cocoa feels like a very personal thing here, one that belongs to them alone. Alexander has _no right_ to take that from them... although common sense assures her that he isn’t trying to.

What is _wrong_ with her? Is she becoming so irrationally defensive that every move Alexander makes feels like he is trying to take something from her? Has she let this engagement destroy their friendship that easily?

The thought troubles her enough that she catches Alexander’s gaze, and opens her mouth to say something about it. Before she gets a chance, the bell over the shop door chimes, and a blur of red and blue bustles into the cafe.

“I’m here!” Mila exclaims, already shrugging off her coat as she jogs towards them. “Sorry, I’m not too late, am I? The line to leave was long, and I couldn’t find my hat — oh. Hello.” She stops at the head of the table, blinking at the seat next to Mary, which she must have expected would be empty. “I didn’t know — we — hello!” She holds out a hand to Alexander, in her typical bold way. He takes it, a half-smile on his lips. “I hadn’t realized I’d be meeting anyone new today, or I’d have worn my nice coat.”

“The coat you have on is perfectly lovely,” replied Alexander. When he says his name, it clearly means nothing to Mila.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Kincaid,” she says, a warm smile on her face as she settles down in the table’s last free seat. “I’m Mila. Mila Radhofsky.”

She sees the moment it connects in Alexander’s head — a thousand strands of a spiderweb, all stringing together to crease a gossamer portrait. “So,” he drawls, _“you’re_ Mila. I’ve heard plenty about you. Mary’s got nothing but praise.”

A surprised flush dances over Mila’s cheeks. Her eyes flicker to Mary, and she grins wide, like her birthday Mary lowers her head, unwilling to let Mila see her own embarrassment.

How on earth is she going to survive the rest of this conversation?

“Not to worry,” Alex goes on. “She’s left me with a sparkling impression of you. Though I didn’t imagine you’d be such a…”

“Greenhorn?” Mirth dances in Mila’s eyes. Alexander returns with a gleam of his own.

“A charming young lady.”

The grin that stretches across Mila’s face far outshines the sun that refuses to break through the midwinter sky. If Mila is the sun, Mary is caught in her orbit, and Alexander is the meteor headed straight for them both.

 _“Oy,”_ Mila says, a laugh bubbling out her throat, “I like you.”

* * *

Once their drinks arrive, the conversation takes the inevitable turn from business to pleasure. It’s almost a relief. As much as Mary feels burdened talking about strikes and socialist rallies, she can’t bear watching Alexander charm her friends for another moment.

(Well, charm Mila. Jack is as susceptible to charm as a brick wall.)

Mila’s shift from giggly to serious is such a relief that Mary can finally breathe easy again. As Jack and Mila draw each other into intense discussion on the most recent strikes and workplace catastrophes, Mary is content to sip her cocoa and listen.

Alexander, as usual, is content with nothing.

“Not even two months ago, that factory in Newark went up in flames.” Mila waves her hands in emphasis, nearly smacking the hot drink in front of her. Despite the grim topic, her animation tugs at Mary’s lips. “Twenty-five girls died. Six of them burned, and the rest had to jump to their deaths.” Mila shakes her head. “Those girl’s died because we live in an industrialized society that sees workers as collateral damage. Our lives are worth only the profits we bring in. Conditions in Newark are no worse than Manhattan’s own factories.”

Alexander has enough sense to know that he’s in over his head; but common sense and social convention have never stopped him from doing what he wants. When he scoffs, the table’s attention turns on him in an instant.

“Come now, it’s the modern age! Just because one backwards factory does it wrong, will you really hold every factory responsible?”

Mary knows that he’s stepped onto a landmine a second before Mila’s locks onto him. Something like lightning flashes in her eyes. She leans in, elbows on the table, narrowing on him until all of Alexander’s possible escape routes have been cut off.

“I work on the ninth floor of my factory,” she says slowly. “A single factory, in a single city, no different from any other. Each morning, we line up in two rows to be taken up by elevator. Each afternoon, we must wait until my building’s supervisors unlock the doors and see fit to let us go.” She lets the words hang in the air for a moment, ominous. “A lot of the girls don’t know the doors are locked. The owners don’t trust us, see, not to steal the fabric we work with. That’s why they search us at the door every night as we leave. They paw through our bags, our pockets. Just to _make sure._ We have a fire escape, of course, but how much would that do? If there were ever a real emergency, we’d all be like rats, scrambling for any escape. And there would be very, very few of them.”

Her voice goes quiet, but it’s echo is as tangible as the tension in the air. Her hard gaze pierces Alexander, daring him to speak. Alexander’s mouth hangs open. He fumbles for words once, twice, before falling silent.

“It’s unsafe,” he admits quietly. “It’s unfair.”

Jack’s mouth twitches. “He’s finally catching on.”

Mary takes pity on Alexander, because she has stood in his shoes before. A year ago, she might have known no better than him. It is so easy to be oblivious about topics you’ve never had to face; it is a comfort not to understand them. Ignorance is a shelter, but not a sanctuary. Despite her reluctance to engage him more than necessary, she nudges his leg under the table and offers him a thin smile. He returns it with a ghost of his own, still looking troubled.

When she turns back to her cocoa, Mary catches Jack looking at her. His eyebrows are furrowed; she returns his gaze without flinching, a dare in her eyes. Nothing about today is as black-and-white as Jack Halloran sees it.

(Jack has no family to whom he must be loyal; no living parents to force him into situations that are unfair. He makes few friends, and keeps them when he’s got them. His life is his work; his success story is of a self-made man. For Jack, the world is as simple as words printed in a headline. He _cannot_ understand.)

She sips her drink, and tears away from piercing gaze. He isn’t allowed to shame her for something she can not control.

After that encounter, the conversation -- to everyone’s surprise -- grows stilted. After Mila preaches, no one ever knows quite how to follow it. Alexander is no different. He sits, suddenly mute, while Mary passes a spare spoon across the table, and Jack remarks how sweet his ginger ale is.

“Really? It is too much?”

“No, it’s just… sweet. There’s a tang to it.”

“Let me guess, it tastes like ginger,” Mila quips.

“A bit.”

She giggles into her mug. Mary plucks another marshmallow from the dish between them, and drops it into the cup of swirling brown chocolate. It begins to dissolve as soon as it hits liquid; foam bubbles up around its edges, and the soft part of the marshmallow shrinks into a milky cloud. Mary blows on it, as it swirls around the cup. She reaches for another.

“We won’t serve ginger ale at the wedding.”

Her hand slips; a water glass becomes the unfortunate victim of her clumsiness. Icy liquid pours across the white lace tablecloth, and Jack lets out a cry as some spills into his lap.

Mila is on her feet in an instant, fumbling with napkins and trying to salvage as many things from the table as she can (mostly metal utensils, which water would do no harm to anyways). As she helps Jack mop himself down, Mary remains seated, deaf and dumb. Her eyes stray over to Alexander, who watches the proceedings with a smirk on his lips.

It’s not a real smirk. It is that callous, hell-may-care smirk that he slips on to mask something deeper; something that forces him to lash out and tear at the world around him, just as his own thoughts are ravaging him.

 _On purpose._ He said it on purpose.

The mess is cleaned up in a matter of minutes, with a little help from the waiter. When Mila sits once more, there’s still laughter on her lips.

“A little accident, huh? Sorry,” she says, still grinning as she turns to Alexander. “You said something about marriage -- you’re getting married? That’s wonderful!”

Ice water is spilling out of Mary’s stomach, filling up her chest cavity, freezing her organs, her lungs, her heart. Alexander smiles.

“It is. Absolutely wonderful. I’m counting the days.”

“Oh, what sort of wedding will it be? A spring wedding? I absolutely love weddings in the spring, where the flowers are all starting to bloom, there’s nothing prettier…”

They chatter on inanely for several more minutes. Mary, head reeling, hears next to none of it. Her name does not leave Alexander’s lips once, and Mila remains blithe, unaware of the truth right in front of her.

He’s ruining everything.

Every few minutes, Alexander’s eyes flicker Mary’s way. He does not look apologetic. She sees their question, their confusion, their concern; he has no right to feel those things. He makes no apology, and continues talking.

Jack, the saint, is the one who finally diverts the conversation. “We published a story a few weeks ago about a bride who died a few days before her wedding. House fire.”

Mila claps a hand over her lips. “Oh, so tragic! Her poor fiancee!”

Mary can see cracks appearing at the edges of her picture perfect world. The colors are growing dull; the shadows stretch further along the walls. The edges of her vision is beginning to crispen, like a photograph held to an open flame.

By the time they are finally ready to leave, the conversation has strayed so far that Mila’s mind isn’t on weddings at all. She’s talking to Jack about some dockworker’s strike up in Rhode Island. Jack listens on attentively, placing his portion of the bill down on the table. Mila has already paid, and is fumbling with her coat, too engrossed in their conversation to look at what she’s doing.

“Allow me,” says Alexander, deftly slipping the coat from Mila’s hands. He holds it open for her; she laughs as she slides into it, one arm after the other. She pats him on the shoulder and calls him a gentleman. Mary’s stomach curdles.

A second too late, she sees that Alexander’s money is already on the table; she’s still fumbling with her purse. As they begin to walk, she stares after them, finding it hard to breathe. If Alexander steps out those doors with Mila, everything she’s built will come crashing down. The illusion will shatter; the truth will be laid, bold and bare, for the night to see. There will be no more hiding, no more refuge.

“Mary, wait,” Jack says, and only then does she realize she’s started after them. She rounds on him, eyes wild.

He holds up her tiny silk purse. “Forgetting something.”

She snatches it from his grasp, and spins towards the door again; only a grip on her arm holds her in place. When she reels back to Jack, his gaze is hard, brows furrowed. “What are you afraid he’ll do?”

“He’s going to tell her,” she exclaims. “He can’t tell her.”

Mila will never forgive her. Mary promised she would never lie to her again; “honesty,” she swore, “from here on out.” If Mila finds out that she’s broken that vow, how will she react? If Mila -- Mila, who said she could almost be in love with Mary, and said it so genuinely that there’s no way she didn’t mean it -- learns that she’s to be married… will she feel betrayed? Outraged? Abandoned?

(There is a poisonous whisper at the back of Mary’s mind that questions if Mila would even care at all.)

Jack’s frown weighs his entire face down, aging him a decade. His hand moves up to her arm, tentative. “Mary, you have to tell her. You can’t —“

“Don’t presume to tell me what I can and cannot do,” she snaps. _“You_ are not my husband-to-be.”

She jerks away from his grasp, and rushes for the door. Precious minutes have passed. There’s no more time to waste. If Alexander, careless Alexander, says a word he shouldn’t and the world crumbles in his wake…

He is standing alone on the street corner, a solemn figure in black silhouettes against the snowy streets and dark sky. Mary’s breath catches in her throat as she sees the figure in a blue coat, hurrying away from him.

“What did you say?” she half-screams, catching Alexander by the shoulder. “What did you tell her?”

Alexander doesn’t look at her. His face is closed off, eyes cold, as he watches Mila rush across the street. “I’m sorry,” he says.

 _Sorry._ That is all there is.

A sob tears from Mary’s chest as she rushes after Mila, barely managing to avoid an oncoming stagecoach. With the clatter of hooves behind her, Mary rushes over the slushy pavement, slipping and sliding in rapid pursuit. Mila does not look behind her. She has her arms drawn up to her chest, fully closed off, and runs like a fugitive.

Mary shouts her name. Mila does not stop. She elbows through throngs of strangers, desperate not to let the blue coat slip out of her sight. If she loses Mila now, she knows she will not find her at the cottage in the morning. She will not see her perched atop Jack’s desk with a stack of articles in her lap; she will not greet her outside their favorite cafes. If Mila leaves now, she will lose her.

Has she lost her already?

Finally, she is close enough to reach her. Mary’s legs are longer than Mila’s, and desperation causes her to fly. She reaches out, snagging the sleeve of her coat, and Mila jerks to a halt.

She reels around; a dismayed whimper flees Mary’s throat. She could never have prepared herself for the sight of Mila, flushed and wild-eyed, eyes spilling over with pent-up tears. Ragged gasps cause her entire body to heave. They sound more like sobs. Only when Mila clamps her mouth shut does Mary see how violently her lower lip is trembling.

“You lied to me,” she gasps, the words leaping from her mouth like bullets. “You _lied!”_

“I didn’t, I _didn’t --”_

“You never told me!” Her eyes screw shut, but only for a second; she still refuses to let the tears fall. When she speaks again, the word is desperate, furious: _“Married?”_

Mary heaves for breath again. She cannot stand to look at Mila, but it is impossible to tear her eyes away. “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s all you have for me? _Sorry?”_

That’s all there is.

“I couldn’t tell you, because I — I needed something good — Mila, I _need_ you, I’m sorry —“

Fury burns in Mila’s eyes, hit enough that a single look leaves Mary blistering in agony. Mila’s temper sweeps her away in a tidal wave. The hurt she is feeling proves too overwhelming to leave room for any other thoughts. “Why do you need me? I don’t matter to you! I’ve never mattered! It’s obvious that all I was to you is a distraction!”

“That’s not true!”

“You worked with me. You turned my words into something beautiful. You made them immortal. But you _used_ me, Mary, and you pretended to care about me. You never told me you loved someone! You didn’t care about me enough to bring it up!”

“I don’t love — Mila, please, it isn’t like that —“

Desperate, Mary lunges forward, and snags the fleeing girl by the arm. Mila’s coat is warm against her skin for the split second they are connected; then Mila wrenches herself from Mary’s grip with such violence that Mary is sent reeling back.

“You don’t get to tell me a thing!” she snarls. “You have no right! No right!”

“Mila!”

They are under a lampost, Mary realizes; just as they were so long ago, when she begged Mila to take her back. History is repeating itself in the mist bitter way, and this time, Mila is too furious to take her hand.

The realization drains all the panic from her; at once, she sees this scene playing out before her like a scene on stage. She has lived this before. She knows this battle, and knows how it ends.

“Don’t go,” she says, her voice small and frightened. “Please.”

Finally, tears stream free down Mila’s face. She can see the way they sting her, the hurt and shame nearly burning her skin. Mila opens her mouth to speak, but for once in her life words fail her. She chokes, and clamps her mouth shut. Instead, she only shakes her head.

“I never want to see you again,” she declares.

It is like a period at the end of a drawn out sentence. It is a red light drawing a busy street to a halt. It is a blackout throughout all of New York City. It is a candle flame suddenly deprived of oxygen.

Mila turns, and storms away. Mary can not follow her.

In the silence that follows, shockwaves of incredulity reverberate through her chest. She can not believe that really happened. She can not believe it is over.

Her brain registers the sound of footsteps running up behind her, but Mary can not stand to look. She does not want to face Jack, with his steel-armored eyes, or Alexander’s lack of remorse. She cannot face the man who has broken this crucial part of her life; who has taken away the person that mattered most to her.

Still, they are there, and they will not go away because she refuses to see them. A hand lands on her shoulder; Mary is familiar enough with the awkward physical gesture to know it is Jack.

“Mary,” he says. Mary shrugs him off, still staring after someone who is no longer there.

Another voice calls her name, and this one is more penetrating. When she turns, Alexander is at her side, staring down at her with furrowed brows. The guilt in his face is unmistakable. Mary hates him for it.

“You —“ she says, but cuts herself off with an inhale. She cannot form words to express the magnitude of what he’s just done.

Alexander isn’t waiting for words. His face scrunches up, like he isn’t sure whether he wants to laugh or cry. He slips a hand into his pocket, and Mary’s eyes land on it. She can not tear them away.

“My mother,” he says, “wanted me to give this to you. It’s the whole reason we came today.”

From his pocket, he draws a black velvet box.

Mary takes it with trembling hands. The ring gleams in its throne. It is all spun silver, with a heavy looking diamond carved into a circle, set deep within its frame. The stone catches the streetlight, glowing as if it holds a thousand stars.

It’s her engagement ring.

Mary is able to shut the box before it slips out of her hands. She hears it chatter against the slushy sidewalk. Alexander opens his mouth, but she doesn’t give him the chance to speak.

With a bellow of explosive fury, she throws herself at him. There is no time for Alexander to duck out of the way; instinct drives him to catch her instead, and he is forced to bear the brunt of her rage. “How dare you!” she bellows, slamming her fists into his chest and shoulders. “How _dare_ you!”

Alexander endured the storm without swinging back, or making any move to escape her. He lets Mary rail at him without even faltering under the weight of her blows.

Only when Jack’s body thrusts itself in between them does Mary force herself to stop, only to avoid hitting him. Alexander is being shoved away a second later; then Jack has Mary by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him.

“Breathe,” he urges. “Breathe, Mary. You’ve got to breathe.”

“How could you?” she shrieks at Alexander again, her voice falling like a lance against his retreating back. “You _monster!_  I will never marry you! I’ll die before I marry you! How dare you?”

Alexander does not look back. He ducks into shadows as dark as his clothes, as the stains on his heart, and escapes into the night.

The last glimmer of hope for her future dances through the gutters, translucent and fleeting, until it vanishes into the blackness with him.


	10. chapter eleven

There’s not much left after Mila is gone.

Their little cottage in the middle of Langley Garden has grown cold. No fires light up the hearth during chilly evenings. The doors do not open, and light voices no longer float through the rooms. Mary can’t stand to see the place absent of Mila’s distinctive presence, so she doesn’t go back.

Her typewriter remains on her desk in the cottage, exactly where she left it.

There is no point in writing is Mila is not there to see if. Meredith Bly long ago ceased to be an entity that can exist on her own. Without the both of them together, there is no Meredith Bly… and Mila’s departure has made certain of it.

Mary was so sure that writing was her passion. It was her great love; the thing she was really meant to do in life. When she found something she was good at and decided to pursue it, she was sure she would never love anything more.

Mila proved her wrong.

Now that Mila has left, she no longer has any interest in writing. It only reminds her of those long evenings spent with Mila reading over her shoulder, murmuring contributions as her breath brushed Mary’s neck. Every time she picks up a pen and looks at a blank page, Mila’s words dance through her mind. _I never mattered to you!_

(She fills up pages with these same words, over and over, line after line. Once she’s done, she crumpled them up and throws them into the fireplace.)

Her heart is aching, and she no longer has any fight left. There is no use; the person worth fighting for has made it clear she wants nothing to do with her.

Mary goes out to tea with her mother more often. They are buzzing social events, filled with her mother’s friends from her embroidery circles and charity lunches. Most of these women, Mary knows, from Wallasee Island or otherwise; some, she has never met before in her life. They will all attend her wedding.

Her mother, of course, is delighted. For so long, Mary has fled from the topic of her impending wedding like an Olympic long-distance runner. Now, she is around the house far more, and has no good reason not to join in the conversation. She doesn’t protest; so, by natural consequence, her mother is thrilled.

“I told you things would start looking up soon, Mary, darling.” She pets Mary under her chin, the way she used to do when Mary was a child gathering tiny bouquets of flowers from Langley Garden for her. Her eyes are shining; they look, Mary decides, nothing like her own. She can see none of her dull brown in her mother’s sparkling blue gaze, or any of her mother’s prettiness in her own sharp features. They may as well be two different entities completely. How can they exist in the same family, the same bloodline?

Her mother presses a kiss to her cheek, quick and light. “Your wedding will be the brightest Manhattan has seen this century!”

Her mother begins to plan a tiara. Mary sits back, endures, and smiles through endless conversations about the day which is fast approaching.

Inside, her heart fights to burst out of her chest. Every cell, every instinct, begs her to escape. She wants to take off and run as far away as possible. She wants to climb to the top of the tallest building, spread her wings, and fly far away from here. She wants, yearns for, dreams of a thousand things she cannot have.

More than anything, Mary wants Mila. But she does not have her. She has lost Mila, and has no right to hope that she will someday return.

The first time Mary lost Mila, it was only a matter of resolving to herself that she wouldn’t give up. She knew she hurt Mila, but the cut did not gauge as deep, and was not so cruel as to leave lasting scars on either of them. Mary felt guilt then, but she was also indignant. She knew that she could see eye-to-eye with Mila, if only they both were willing to try. The , it was only a matter of getting Mila to forgive her.

That was so long ago. It seems like years, centuries, since she declared to Mila exactly what she was fighting for. Since then, everything has changed. Mary has become a different person; perhaps, in some ways, so has Mila. She is less optimistic than the girl who first vowed to revolutionize workplace rights all across New York City; she fought and lost the battle in her very own factory. That defeat did not turn Mila jaded, but it made her harder. She became more focused, more determined, less willing to open herself up. She grew prepared for disappointment. Nothing, Mila vowed to Mary once, would ever again hurt her as much as the end of the Strike of 60,000 had. She would not let it.

Then _Mary_ — one of the few people who Mila allowed past the walls that were still painstakingly being erected — betrayed her.

Mary never lied. She never once told Mila that she was not engaged. All she did was… not tell her, during the thousands of chances that she had. There were endless opportunities for her to come clean, and she never took them… because she wanted to preserve the little piece of happiness that was the cottage, Meredith Bly, and Mila. Past the patchwork of her future being dragged into place in front of her eyes, leaving her without a word to say about it — she still had a purpose here. It was her glowing light at the end of the tunnel. She loved being a writer. She loved being paid. She loved living as an independent woman.

She loved Mila.

This, Mary realizes, is the biggest lie she ever told Mila; and it is a lie of omission. She never told her that she loved her.

Only because she was a coward, who could not stand to say the words out loud. Saying them made everything real. They meant that she had true feelings for her best friend. A woman. Someone who has lived through things Mary can not even imagine.

Mary could not stand to imagine what that admission might destroy, so she never said them. She was afraid.

She was a coward.

More of a coward than Alexander could ever be. More of a coward than her father. Mary was the weakest of them all, because she could not bear to say the truth that dominated her heart since the moment it dawned on her. From the second she realized she was in love, Mila mattered more than anything else.

Now, Mila is gone.

Mary is left with a ring that brands the skin of her finger, and the promise of a future she can not bear to think about.

It is a just punishment, all things considered.

* * *

When Jack sends her a note, she doesn’t open it. When he sends her a letter a few weeks later, she tucks it into a drawer and tries to forget about it. When he sends an entire pageboy to the Merran mansion — ostensibly to drop off correspondence for Mr. Merran from his chief editor — Mary turns the boy away with a dollar for his trouble after he tries plying her with more messages.

Jack only becomes impossible to disregard when he shows up at their door himself. Jack Halloran in person is impossible to ignore.

Mary doesn’t know what Jack says to her father in the half hour he spends in their office. Whatever excuse Jack came up with to bring him here, it must be a good one, because he leaves the room with a stack of papers under his arm. He catches Mary just before she can scurry down the staircase, out of sight.

“You,” he exclaims, feet pounding after her. “You’ve made yourself very difficult to find.”

“I really haven’t,” Mary replies without turning around. The past few weeks have kept her busy, but she’s easy to find if someone knows where to look. Just this Saturday, she toured the church that would serve as venue for her wedding. She spent yesterday afternoon the same way she’s spent all her afternoons recently: having lunch with her mother at the Colony Club. If Jack hasn’t been able to find her — if he’s really been searching — than he hasn’t looked in the right spots.

“So,” he says, just as Mary reaches the bottom of the stairs. “You’re avoiding me, then?”

She rounds on her heel. A cool smile plays across her lips. “Astute of you to notice, Mr. Halloran. You’re catching on.”

“When people are avoiding me, I like them to say it to my face.”

“That defeats the entire purpose.”

“Exactly.”

Mary turns and starts off down the hallway, hoping to reach the Day room before Jack can catch up with her. She doubts Jack is _really_ bold enough to go stomping through his boss’s house in pursuit of his daughter. Then again, she’s made the mistake of underestimating Jack before.

When they reach the day room, a lone maid is tending the bouquet of flowers the rests on top of the windowside table, illuminated by the bright sun which fills the entire room. When Mary steps in, her head rises. She goes still, like a deer in the headlights. Mary knows from the heavy footsteps behind her that she is still being followed.

“Keep going, Liza, you’re doing a wonderful job,” she says, offering the maid a smile. On the flip of a dime, she rounds back on Jack, fury blazing in her eyes. “Stop following me, you cad! Don’t you have any sense of decency?”

“Don’t you have any sense at all?” Jack fires back; and the sharp rebuke causes Mary’s mouth to click shut in shock. Jack seized the victory for what it's worth. “You’ve spent the last year making a name for yourself, a living, a _future_ — and now you’re giving it all up?

Mary curls her lips back in a furious snarl. “It is not _my_ name! I already know what my future looks like. It’s that of a bride, not of a journalist.”

“Is that what you want?”

She takes a step forward, voice dropping to a sharp hiss. “Don’t you dare ask me that.”

“You know it’s not, Boss. You know you’re unhappy.”

She narrows her eyes, ashamed by the sharp burn she can feel within them, as well as the sour swelling in her throat. A year ago, it took a small-scale catastrophe to draw tears out of her; now she cries as easily as breathing.

“You’re not allowed to tell me what makes me happy,” she retorts, voice low and burning. “You don’t know me so well, Jack.”

Jack is unperturbed — of course. It’s never been like Jack to give up. He has a reporter’s natural tenacity, and a ruthlessness that goes beyond journalism. Mary isn’t sure what she represents to him; now that she is no longer Meredith Bly, no longer has Mila standing by her side. Whatever she means, he has latched on to her, and is too determined to let go. Even if he has to follow her into her own home, and torment her to make his point.

“This isn’t what you want, and you know it. You’re giving up.”

“Better to die gracefully, isn’t it?”

“That’s what you call it?” He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. Mary hates that wicked instinct inside of her that shrivels up in shame.

He’s right, and she hates him for it. Mary has always been as determined as Jack, if not more. She could just as easily be standing in his place, in someone else’s house, determined not to let go of whatever idea she had. She and Jack have always been too alike for their own good.

She sighs. All of the anger drains out of her in a single, poisonous exhale. She is left with nothing but fury and exhaustion. “What can I do, Jack?”

Jack rolls his shoulders, an easy, infuriatingly languid gesture. When Mary narrows her eyes, he tilts his head, as if studying an amusing child.

“Would you rather let your career end,” he says, “or _finish_ it?”

Mary blinks at him. Jack’s gazes is unflinching; it pierces her without remorse. She must summon all her willpower not to shrink back from it.

She waits for him to go on, but he has said his piece. The words linger between them for a long moment. Jack’s silence is more pointed than anything else he could have said. Mary’s mind races with his suggestion; the very notion threatens to overwhelm her.

The last thing she wants is to see the flame of her budding writing career sputter and die, like a candle starved for air. She does not want to lose something so important to her. Writing has brought her a job that she never realizes even existed before, and now that she’s seized her chance, the idea of giving it up sickens her.

From the moment she becomes a wife, she will cease to be a journalist. She cannot reconcile the two paths with each other; there is no way for them to converge into a single future. Alexander will never protest, of course. He would never try to stop her from writing, simply because he does not care enough to intervene. However, her career would lose so much of the meaning that enriched her life in the first place. No longer would it be a window to freedom that she carved for herself; instead, it would be some hobby she is allowed, like a bored little housewife who paints or plays a mediocre piano to while away the hours. The loss of her freedom means the loss of what Mary holds dearest to her.

She has already lost Mila. Now, she is going to lose Meredith Bly too, whether she likes it or not.

 _Why_ lie down and take it, dammit? Why let the most beautiful thing she’s ever created dry up and die like a flower in the first frost of winter?

That is not the sort of person she is.

At last, she turns back to Jack. Her arms loop over his chest; she returns the gaze trained on her, as cool and unrelenting as his own.

“What did you have in mind?”

* * *

Mila’s apartment is somehow worse than what she remembers. It might have to do with the fact that she’s come alone, but the Lower East Side has never seemed so foreboding. The tenements tower high over her head, looming colossuses of human squalor; she imagines she sees shadows in every window, peering down at her, as she winds her way through the streets.

Her every step is taken with caution. She's wearing a plain black coat, but that can do little to disguise the fact that she doesn’t belong here. Surely there are pickpocketers and thugs lurking in the alleys, just waiting for some disoriented rich girl to stumble into their path. Mary has been here once before, seen it all before, but every moment here without Mila leaves her feeling more exposed, more out of her element.

She is relieved to finally recognize the tall brick building that harbors the Radhofsky family. As Mary slips inside, she charts her course from memory. Mila’s apartment in on the fourth floor. She travels up the steep, rickety staircase, and pushes out into the narrow hallway to reveal the familiar sight of open doors and laundry hanging along the walls.

A scrawny toddler peers at her from inside a metal bathtub as she walks past; Mary stops just long enough to make a face at it. The child smiles, gummy and toothless, reaching up a dripping hand towards her.

Mary debates what to do, with no parent in sight to distract the little thing. Finally, she slips her hand into her pocket and leaves a dollar tucked next to the steel tub. Perhaps that will help put a little more meat on the tot’s bones.

When she finally reaches Mila’s house, she hesitates just a second before knocking. She can feel her pounding heart in her throat, but she has come too close, resolved herself too firmly, to back out now. Her knuckles rap against solid wood.

A moment of silence passes; Mary holds her breath. At last, the door opens to a familiar round face, framed by messy dark curls. His features are a bit more mature now, and he’s gotten taller since they last met, but Mary recognizes the young man as easily as he recognizes her.

“Hello, Abe,” she says. “Is Mila home?”

Mila’s brother frowns at her, head inclining to the side (Mila does the same thing when she’s puzzled, Mary notes with a pang). Abe’s mouth opens; he seems to debate making an excuse, but finally comes out with it.

“She is. I don’t think she’d like to see you, though.”

His voice is deeper. It makes him seem very far away from the young boy who ran down the hallway after a rogue ball, though that was only a year ago. Mila always speaks about her little brother with such care. Clearly, that protective instinct is shared between siblings.

“I know. I’m sorry, but I need to talk to her. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important.” She takes a deep breath. “Please ask Mila to see me? If she refuses, I’ll go.”

Abe scrutinized her for a long moment; then he shuts the door in her face.

Mary holds her breath and waits. After several long moments of agonizing suspense, she hears the sound of raised voices from inside the apartment. Finally, the door cracks open again.

 _“Oy. Ver geharget,_ Mary,” Mila says, words low with venom. “You really can’t leave me alone?”

She looks… exactly how Mary remembers her. Red curls drift around her face, stopping just above her shoulders; she holds it away from her thin face with two dark pins. There is a smudge of sauce on her cheek, probably from cooking, and her skirt is flecked with dark water stains — from laundry, most likely. Mila’s eyes are as cool as their color, piercing Mary like twin icicles.

Mary takes a deep breath, stunned by the feeling of being near her once more. She forgot, in the brief period of time without her, just how strong Mila’s presence is. She feels like a storm looming on the horizon. Around her the air is charged, electric, illuminated by flashes of lightning barely visible to the human eye. Everything about _this_ version of Mila is familiar and intimidating, all at once; she is angry, and that makes her incredible. It makes her terrible.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Mila finally says, when Mary offers nothing. Mary hangs her head in reply.

“I know,” she answers. “I wouldn’t be. But Mila, this is important. I only ask that you listen.”

“If that were all you wanted, you wouldn’t be here.”

“You’re right,” Mary nods, correcting herself. “I ask that you listen now; and if you’re willing to help me, I’m going to ask for a lot more. It might be the most you’ve ever done for me, which is a high bar. I’m going into this with full expectations that you’ll say no.

Mila purses her lips, unimpressed. She doesn’t like being underestimated; she hates being second-guessed even more.

“Fine,” she says, leaning all her weight against the door frame. “What do you want to say?”

Mary’s eyes flicker around. She is acutely aware of the close space of the tenement; of the neighbors lingering just behind their open doors, of Mila’s family feet away inside the apartment. This proposition is risky. It is nothing to shout out loud for the world to hear; it could cost Mila her job, and her livelihood.

In every way, she has no right to ask this of Mila at all; yet she is still standing here. Why? Maybe, a tiny voice in the back of Mary’s mind croons, it is because Mila has ever let her down before.

She takes a deep breath, and focuses on the deep bray of her own heart in her chest. It is easier than dreading Mila’s response. “Jack talked me into one last article. Meredith Bly’s magnum opus. An expose into factory life, from a reporter on the inside.”

Mila crooks an eyebrow. Mary knows just what she’s thinking, and she is off-track.

“What I’m asking is more than I’ve got any right to. I don’t know if it would be possible, and if the scheme were discovered… someone’s job could be on the line.”

Mila lets out a dry, coughing laugh. “Most likely mine?”

“If you help me.” Mary pauses, allowing the words to hang in the air between them. “You don’t have to help me, Mila.”

No doubt she’s figured it out by now, but realization creeps into Mila’s face anyway. She shakes her head, stilted and disbelieving. “You don’t want _my_ story. You want me to sneak you into my factory. So Madame Reporter gets to walk in the shoes of a real factory girl for a day. Imagine that. _Oy gevalt!”_

Mary steels herself. “If you agree to help —“

“Do you have any idea what you’re asking?”

She is prepared for the sharpness of her tone, the steel underlying every word. That does not make their cut any shallower.

“Do you know what you’re asking me to do? I could not only lose my job for this, but I could be blacklisted from every factory in the city. It might even be illegal. I’m not sure, Mary, because I can’t afford any fancy lawyer to tell me if it is or isn’t! If the factory owners find out and go after me, the only protection I’ve got is my union, and what can they do in a situation like this? Sneaking an outsider, a reporter into the factory… how could I expect to get away with a thing like that?”

“I know you‘d find a way,” Mary replies. “I know you, Mila.”

She knows that Mila never turns her back on a challenge. She never cringed away. She never shows fear. She tackles everything head-on, and the world’s limitations bend to her will.

If Mila wants to sneak someone into the factory, she will figure out how. This is the exact sort of plan that would have delighted her three months ago. It has every element of rebellion, of revolution. Were things any different, the Mila whose hunger for change is insatiable would jump at this chance.

The Mila that stands before Mary now is not the soaring phoenix of rebellion. She is tired, defensive, and still hurting from more than one wound that has not been given the chance to heal. She looks at Mary and does not see hope, but the one who inflicted those wounds to begin with.

Slowly, Mila shakes her head. She takes a step back over the threshold. “I can’t agree, Mary.”

“Mila, please.”

“I can’t help you.”

“I’m not asking you to, I just need you to listen —“

“You want my help, and I can’t give it. Not right now. There’s too much risk, and you — _you_ —“

Mary swallows hard. She understands everything Mila cannot force herself to say; it is written plainly across the other girl’s face. Mila has always worn her emotions like an open book, and Mary has become a master at reading them.

“It’s all about me, isn’t it?” she murmurs. Mila shrinks back, brows scrunching up. She suddenly looks young, and more vulnerable than Mary has ever seen her.

“Maybe,” she admits, as simple as fact. “If it is, you understand why. Accept it. That’s all you can do.”

Except it isn’t, and every fiber of Mary’s being knows it. As the door begins to swing shut, she sees every second played over in her head — every flash of memory, from the crowded street, the union hall meeting, Christmas Eve, Coney Island, hot cocoa, promises and secrets, a half-awake confession… every second. Every missed opportunity. Every moment she knew, without voicing the words, without realizing, without _daring._ Every moment she could have, but didn’t speak the truth.

“I love you,” she whispers.

Mila freezes.

She is still visible behind the frame of the half closed door. Her eyes are wide. Her mouth is parted in a soundless gasp, and her face looks paler than ever. When her hand tightens around the doorframe, it is pushed a bit further open.

“I love you, Mila,” Mary says again, strength leeching into her voice. There is no way to describe the elation that comes from saying it out loud. It is like a massive burden lifting from her shoulders, the world’s greatest relief. A sea of emotions, churning inside her for nearly a year, rush all at once to Mary’s lips. They spill out before she can stop them; they have been desperate to be heard for too long. “I love you, _I love you,_ I love _everything_ about you. I love you so much that I can’t breathe when I think of it. Everything about you leaves me reeling. Just looking at you makes me smile. You make me feel ridiculous. I feel as if I’m standing in the light — completely unafraid, unashamed.”

Mila sways forward, as if unsteady on her own feet. Mary’s own hand catches the doorframe to brace her.

“I want to change the world for you, because you changed mine. It’s as if I was never alive before I met you, and when we did... the world became real. I love you, and I need you to know it. I love you, and it _hurts_ so much. I love you, and...”

Her voice breaks on the last word. She bites down on her lip, hard enough to draw blood, and hunches forward. “I’m sorry.”

Mila’s shoulders tremble. She does not turn around; she doesn’t even glance over her shoulder. Mary hears her shuddering exhale, sees the glisten of her wide eyes.

“Don’t say that, Mary,” she whispers, weak and unsteady.

“I love you,” Mary says again.

“Stop.”

“I do!”

“I know.”

Mila’s voice is low, broken. Her hand lingers on the doorframe. It trembles, just a bit, as if she yearns to be anywhere, doing _anything_ other than this.

When she looks up, the breath is stolen from Mary’s lungs. There is confirmation in her face; not just knowledge, not just realization, but solidarity. It is what a secret looks like, a second before it comes out. It is how reality twists emotions into something confusion, turns love into pain and suffering into pleasure. It is not the realization of _I love you,_ but the affirmation of _I love you too._

Mila inhales a shallow breath of air. “I know.”

She seems to physically push herself away. Mila lurches forward, back into the apartment, and slams the door shut. She leaves nothing behind.

Mary is left staring after her, struggling to breathe past the feeling of her ribs being crushed in her chest. Her breath comes in short, shallow pants. She is devastated and relieved all at once; it overwhelms her.

For a moment, she has to brace herself against the mildew-stained wall. When the world straightens itself out, she is finally able to recover.

Mary starts off down the hallway again, head held high.

* * *

She tells herself that whatever decision Mila makes, it will not matter. Mary has done her part; she has said what she needed to. She tore her heart out and laid it at Mila’s feet. Whether she chooses to kick it aside or not, it won’t matter. The burden is gone.

(It will not matter, because her heart is already broken.)

Mary does not expect Mila to reciprocate; she does not expect her to help.

When she arrives back home the next Wednesday, after a long day of lunches and shopping with her mother, there is a letter waiting for Mary on their foyer table.

“For you, Miss Mary. From a Lower Manhattan address.”

Mary casts their butler, Riley, a distracted smile. She barely waits until she makes it upstairs to tear the fragile paper of the envelope open.

_Mary —_

_You have my help. Meet me on the corner of Washington Place and Greene Street, eight o’clock, Saturday morning. Work ends at 4:45. Dress plain, modest. You’ll be with me all day._

_See you Saturday._

_Mila._

Mila doesn’t have the money for personalized stationary or perfumes envelopes, but there is a tiny pencil-etching in the corner of the letter. A flower, Mary realizes with a jolt. A daisy.

She folds the letter, and holds it tightly to her chest.

Saturday will be the day of truth. On Saturday, she will lay Meredith Bly’s legacy to rest for good. With it, her dreams of a journalism career. With it, her heart.

Saturday will be the day she at last lets go of Mila.


	11. chapter twelve

For late March, the morning dawns warm and balmy, with a crisp spring breeze filtering through Mary’s open bedroom window. No maid wakes her up today. She is awake by five that morning, making plans, sitting at her desk by candlelight and tapping the oak counter with the end of her pencil. She drums out an absentminded tune, scribbled a few more questions down, and returns to studying the candle flame again. Every minute until morning passes like a century.

By the time seven o’clock dawns, she is already dressed. Her tweed skirt is long, pooling around her ankles; it is a sandy brown color that she would find unattractive on any day. Mary reminds herself that she is not dressing to impress, and swallows her annoyance. If she wants to blend in, she has to look like a factory girl.

Thankfully, she’s waited for Mila outside her shop enough afternoons that she has a good idea of what to aim for. Her white blouse is cotton, not silk; she borrows a pair of her father’s long stockings, over plain, sensible shoes (that she may have borrowed from poor Liza). Her hair is tucked up into a modest updo, not meant to highlight the angles of her face.  
She wears no hat, no accessories. Even her jacket — a heavy thing of black wool, with a stylish belt around the waist — seems like too much, but she forces her cover aside for the sake of practicality. It won’t help anyone if she catches a chill walking to the factory.

By seven fifteen, she’s out the door. By seven thirty, her car drops her off one block from the factory, and she begins her walk.

Mila is waiting for her at the top of the street. She is instantly recognizable; if her bright hair, tucked beneath a white winter’s hat, didn’t give her away, the sharp gaze she’s got trained towards the end of the street would have. As soon as she spots Mary, she stands up straighter; her hands slide out of the pockets of her coat.

“I nearly thought you wouldn’t show up,” she says when Mary reaches her.

Mary ducks her head. “I promised, Mila. I said I’d be here.”

For a moment, Mila is silent. As she chews over her words, Mary feels the tension between them rise a degree. Finally, Mila lets out a small hum. “You did,” she agrees, and steps off the curb. “Let’s go, then.”

The Asch building, at the corner of Washington Place and Greene Street, is a looming omnibus of a building. Though far from a skyscraper — it’s doesn’t hold a candle to the Metropolitan Life Tower just blocks away, whose fifty stories cement its place as the tallest building in the world — Mila’s factory is imposing just the same. It it a massive loft building of steel and brick that dominates the sidewalk as if determined to take it over. As they approach, Mary must crane her neck back to see up to the roof, ten towering stories above. From down below, the distance seems like miles.

High up, near the eighth floor, a sign decorates the side of the building. Its symbol is instantly familiar; a white triangle emblazoned inside a circle. Everyone in New York City knows that symbol; not just because Mila’s factory corners the market on shirtwaists. The strikes of just over a year ago have made the eponymous Triangle impossible to forget.

The twin lines of people stretch around the corner and down the block. The majority of the workers are fresh faced girls, but a number of men, and even older woman join the ranks of workers. All are idle. Some people are busy rifling through their pocketbooks; others pour over newspapers clutched in their hands; many chat amongst each other, lost in their own private conversations. Yiddish and Italian mix together in a blur of sound that rings like a discordant melody through the street. No one looks up when Mila and Mary slip into the throng. They are two more workers in a sea of industrial anonymity.

“We have to wait here for the freight elevators to take us up,” Mila comments sideways to Mila. “The nice passenger elevators are for paying customers. Building management uses ‘em all the time. We get stuck with the freights.”

Over Mila’s shoulder, a tall young woman with hair pulled into a high updo rolls her eyes. “Pout all you want, but they treat us better than their shipments, at least,” she quips. “Merchandise don’t get lunch breaks.”

A smirk tugs at Mila’s lips. “On some days, neither do we.” She turns her back on Mary, attention swiveling to the girl. As her arms cross, Mary is struck by the relaxed ease of her manner; where she feels engulfed by this onslaught of people chattering in languages she cannot understand, Mila is thriving in it. This is her place.

“Surprised to see you back,” Mila says. “I wondered if you hadn’t run off with that man of yours.”

The girl lets out a bark of laughter. “Not likely! Sol is a mensch. That’s why my parents love him so much.”

“Nothing to do with why you like him, I’m sure. You’ve made a full recovery?”

“From yesterday’s _illness?_ Of course. My family plans to celebrate the engagement again tonight, so I’m glad there’s no work tomorrow. I’m expecting I’ll be feeling sick again.”

“You’ve got less than a month ‘til you’re a married woman.” Mila claps her friend on the shoulder. “And you can quit working. Make the most of it.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do!”

The girls titter with each other for a moment before they break away. When Mila turns back around, her face is light and happy. Her smile fades when she settles it on Mary, but only a bit.

“That’s Becky. She’s got a fiancé who works for a local jeweler, and they’re getting married in a couple of weeks! We went out to celebrate last week, I’ve never seen her so excited.”

“That’s nice.” Mary doesn’t quite know what to do with the information. “Good for her.”

“Sure is.” Mila seems to have locked into an idea, however, and she’s not letting go. Within seconds, she’s engaged another person near her in conversation. “Surka! How are your night classes?”

Mila leaves Mary reeling as she struggles to keep up with the roll of names thrown at her. They are surrounded by an endless sea of faces, and Mary seems to know every one of them; what’s more, she greets them for Mary’s benefit. The more she talks, the more Mary’s head spins.

Lena Silver just got a promotion; Rose Feimann is reading an interesting book; Lucy and Annie Priviano are sisters who work at adjoining stations; Esther Sorkin arrived from Russia just a month ago. Mila introduces none of them, but she engages each one, and rattles their names off effortlessly. If she asked, Mary has no doubt Mila could give their entire life stories.

“That’s Isaac Blim, he works with his mother… Isaac, _gut-shabes!_ What’s new?”

Isaac is a long-faced boy, no older than seventeen, with hints of acne, and a gap toothed grin that stretches across his face when he sees Mila. _“Gut morgn,_ Mila. You look nice this morning.”

“So do you. You wearing a new hat?”

“It’s the same one I wear every day.” The kid scratches the back of his neck; his face goes red when Mila smacks his chest.

“You make it look new every day, then. How are your little sisters?”

“Healthy, finally. The littlest one finally got over her cold…” He trails off, studying Mila like she is a painting in a museum that he longs to touch, but doesn’t dark. “And you, Mila? How are you doing?”

Mila’s eyes flicker back to Mary, just once, before she paints a broad smile on her face. It rings false on her face, but just as fierce and defiant as anything Mila ever does. She lifts her chin up as she declares, _“Boychik,_ I am _wonderful_ this morning.”

It takes all of Mary’s composure not to shrink into the crowd. More than ever, she is conscious of how wrong her presence here is. She is not supposed to be here; she does not want to be here. She doesn’t belong amongst this group of greenhorns and laborers. Their unfamiliar words steal her voice from her throat; their laughter makes her skin crawl. No one gives her more than a second glance, but she feels as out of place as a rusted nail; as glaring as the sign on top of the Triangle building. Everything about this is wrong, wrong, wrong, and she does not belong here. She shouldn’t be imposing on Mila. She should just go.

With a great, resounding creak, the freight elevator opens up. The first load of people begin to pour in, and Mary finds herself swept up with the crowd.

Somehow, Mila’s hand finds her wrist, and holds it tight. There is no time to consider escape now. As they are pressed forward, all Mary can do is move along with the crowd.

“Don’t look so skittish,” Mila whispers, words grazing her ear, and the elevator doors close behind them. “You’re going to learn today. Just keep your mouth shut, and your eyes open.”

Mary swallows hard, and squeezes her eyes shut — for just a second. This is the only chance she’ll have to do so.

When she opens her eyes, she has found the steel bar of resolve inside of her and gripped it with both hands. Today, she is out of place; but today, she is a reporter for the last time.

No matter what, she’s going to make the best of it.

* * *

Mary, to her immense credit, has seen a sewing machine prior to today.

She’s even used one before. Never has she been more grateful for her adolescence filled with an endless stream of rotating interests. She may have been an absolutely abysmal seamstress, despite poor old Maud’s attempts to teach her, but Mary knows the basics of how a sewing machine works.

At least, she can turn one on. She can set up the fabric, and even stitch a bit. Not in a straight line, and not in any intricate patterns, but it’s the effort that counts.

Or so it was when she was just dipping her toes into sewing as a hobby. Now, though — in the middle of a bustling factory, with her cover on the line — Mary looks down at the machine in front of her and desperately wracks her brain for whatever she remembers learning so long ago.

Her eyes flicker over to Mila, who’s already setting up her first piece of fabric. Mary swallows hard. “Are — are you sure no one will notice me?” she whispers (for the third time). “Someone’s bound to notice a girl they’ve never seen working next to you.”

“Sophie works besides me, but she never comes in for the Sabbath. Anyone else will just assume her machine has been reassigned.” Mila offers her a nod that could be an attempt to comfort her. “Girls come in and out of here all the time. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Mary swallows hard, playing with the fabric between her fingers. Her attempt at distracting herself did little to avert her attention from the real problem: where does she start?

“Corner of the waist, work your way around.” Mila’s voice is no louder than a whisper; the heel of her boot digs into Mary’s ankle just enough that it startled her into action. Her hands fly before she realizes what they’re doing. In a second, the shirtwaist is set beneath the machine, and it begins to etch a steady pattern of thread.

“Lighter touch, lighter,” Mila whispers. After a moment, Mary comes to the end of her waist. “Perfect.”

When Mary looks up, she cannot help the grin on her face. Mila holds her gaze for just a second before turning back to her work.

The absence of her gaze leaves Mary feeling like something precious has been ripped from her grasp. She frowns down at her hands, carefully guiding each stitch, and swallows back a bitter rush of disappointment. She can not, will no expect any more from Mila. She is already going above and beyond in helping her now. There is no reason she ought to give Mary anything else — like kindness, or gestures of a friendship that no longer exists.

The first piece is finished. She leans away from her sewing machine, a satisfied smile stretching her lips. It vanishes immediately when she glances at Mila and sees that she has at least five waists resting in her basket compared to Mary’s one.

The pace here is obscene. All around her, girls’ hands fly across their machines, creating shirtwaist after shirtwaist at such a pace that Mary’s head blurs. Steady mountains of garments pile up in front of them. Wicker baskets balance on the floor and edges of tables, collecting each piece of productivity. The girls are bent low over their work, shoulders hunched and brows furrowed in focus.

For a second, it feels eerie. Mary is a single cog in a huge machine, each piece working on and on without faltering for a second. They have, for this moment, ceased to be human beings, with feelings and emotions and lives of their own. No longer are they hands that sew, brows that sweat; they have been reduced to the sum of product they create.

This is the industry, and it is terrifying.

A sharp pain shoots through her shin as Mila’s foot slams into her. Mary barely stifles a yelp; but by the time the foreman rounds the table, she has snapped back into working mode. Her third shirtwaist feels heavy in her inexperienced hands.

“Keep up the pace,” is all the man behind her says as he moves past. Mary bites her lip and hunches further over her work. She can’t fall behind; she has to keep going.

But she is nowhere near as fast as the other girls, and the pace is inhuman. She does not know how long she works. Every minute feels like an hour; until she loses track of time, and herself, entirely.

When a bell suddenly chimes throughout the loft, Mary springs up in surprise. As soon as her concentration has been broken, the world rushes back to her. The ache in her hands immediately becomes apparent, coupled with a spinning head and aching eyes.

“That’s lunch,” Mila announces, clapping her hands down on her knees. When she turns to Mary, only to be met by a blank look, her face falls. “You didn’t bring anything, did you?”

“I… didn’t know you got a lunch break.”

“Of course not, we all just starve.” She rolls her eyes, hauling herself to her feet in one swift movement. “Stay here. Right… here. Don’t go anywhere, really. Stay in this seat.”

Mary does what she’s told. She feels very small in this huge factory, one of two hundred workers as anonymous as her. She is no longer consumed by a sense of otherness that sets her apart from the rest of the workers. There is solidarity on the factory floor, but also distance. She is no different from them in here, because nothing about her matters behind these machines. If she rose to her feet, it would be the easiest thing in the world to get lost; and a small, irrational part of her is convinced that any sense of herself would be swept away.

Mila’s interlude is merciful. In three minutes, she returns, toting a brown paper bag with her.

She sets it down on the table, and spills its contents into her lap. An apple, a thin sandwich of bread and meat, and a handful of dry cookies.

“Here,” she says, and empties a few of the cookies into Mary’s palms. You can have the apple too, I don’t need it.”

“We can split it.”

“No knife to do that.” Mila crooks an eyebrow. “Unless you want to bite it, one after the other…”

Mary bites down hard on a cookie, and remains silent.

It doesn’t take long for Mila to be drawn into conversation with the women around her — a conversation that Mary, the outsider once more, abstains from. It takes even less time than that for Mila’s friends to notice her presence, and the absence of a lunch in front of her.

“Here, motek, you’re so thin, have some of this,” one girl says, pushing a triangle of a sandwich over to her.

“This will give you some energy,” another girl adds, passing over a handful of grapes.

It isn’t long before Mary has more food than she needs. The only thing that makes her less self-conscious is that sharing seems to be the rule of lunch (especially for those who don’t have food of their own). Across from her, three girls share a few potato slices. Mila and a nearby friend split a pastry.

Most of the conversation is a hectic mix is Yiddish and English that Mary cannot hope to keep up with; so, she remains silent. The shift in atmosphere is fascinating. At once, the girls have switched from machines to human beings once more. The shift is so fluid that it is seamless; they have lives, personalities, everything the frantic pace of work drummed out of them.

“Is this your first day?” a girl at her elbow asks. Mary nods, feeling a little overwhelmed. When the girl grins at her, it helps ground her back to earth. She has a sweet, down-to-earth manner; a pretty face is offset by braided black hair, tied back with a wide, floppy bow. It is hard not to feel reassured by this girl.

“Welcome to the Triangle, then! I’m Tessa, I been working here for almost six months. It seems big on your first day, but it ain’t so bad, after a while.”

Mary exhales, and is able to smile back. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“The foreman don’t bother you much, if you behave.” Tessa laughs, flashing a row of pearly teeth. A dimple at the corner of her mouth crinkles. When she turns her gaze on Mary, she cannot help but feel as if she’s being seen through, though nothing about the other girl’s friendliness would suggest it. Mary ducks her head, grateful for the distraction of her borrowed sandwich.

“I’m afraid you’re all much better at this than I am,” she remarks; then, just in time, the purpose of her mission rushes back to her. “How do you feel about working here?”

“Working here… it’s nice, I guess. Nicer than other places. The Triangle treats us good.”

“What about the strikes last year? It seems like other girls had a lot to complain about.”

“I… wasn’t involved in those. I was hired after.” Tessa looks flustered. She ducks her head, casting a concerned glance over her shoulder. “You wanna keep your job, don’t talk too loud about that.”

“Management doesn’t like talk about the strikes?”

“They’re not the only ones.” The interjection of a new voice jars them from their hushed conversation. Mary, whose attention had just begun to be piqued — who finally started feeling like a reporter again, instead of a factory girl — turns to look at Mila with a frown.

Mila is scowling at her right back. When she turns around, Mary turns with her. She offended Mila and doesn’t even know how.

It’s a few seconds before Mila regains her composure. Her voice is hushed when she leans back towards Mary. “Talking about all that in here is the fastest way to get yourself kicked out. Keep your mouth shut and just watch. I’ll get you people to talk to.”

Mary opens her mouth, but Mila cuts her off. “Count on me.”

What else can Mary do? (Nothing, god help her, absolutely nothing at all.)

She turns back to Tessa with a nervous half-smile on her lips. “So,” she says cheerfully, “How’s your lunch?”

* * *

The break passes, and the factory returns to work. Mary struggles to focus her attention on her machine once again; there is a part of her that’s afraid of losing herself the way she did before. It is so effortless to slip out of your body amidst there endless rows of tables, of working girls and machines. It happens so easily that it terrifies her.

To keep her mind awake, Mary allows her attention to wander — from the shirtwaist at her fingertips to the workers around her. Tessa and Mila are both diligent at her sides. At the end of the table, a long-necked girl with dark hair supervises their work; Mary averts her eyes when that watchful gaze turns on her. Working at the machines across from her, two blondes and a brunette keep up their tireless pace.

Mary can’t help frowning as she studies the brunette girl closer. She is fine-boned and slender, thin enough that her small stature could be mistaken for a result of that. As Mary studies her closer, however, she can’t help noticing the youthful gentleness to the girl’s features.

In fact, everything about her looks young. Compared to the girls working around her, it is painfully obvious that this girl is just barely a teenager.

She’s heard stories of children working in factories before, but she never imagined seeing it. Mary can’t help herself.

“You,” she whispers across the table. “How old are you?”

Her voice is nearly swallowed up by the drone of sewing machines, but somehow the girl hears her anyway. Her eyes shoot up, and widen in surprise when they catch Mary watching her.

Mary almost doesn’t catch what she hisses back. “Fourteen.”

Fourteen. That’s legal, but barely. She’s still a child. This factory is no place for a girl as young as her.

“Why do you work here?” Mary can’t help asking.

“I work with my sisters. For our Mama to feed the babies.”

The babies. How many siblings is this child helping to support? When did she start working? Where are her sisters, and how are they looking after her? A million questions race through Mary’s head, but she gets the chance to voice none of them. Seconds later, a heavy weight comes to rest on her shoulders.

Her nose is flooded with the sharp scent of olive oil and vinegar; when she turns, she freezes at the sight of a burly, rough-knuckled hand on her shoulder. Calloused fingers press into the fabric of her sleeve.

“You’re here to work, not talk,” he rumbles. “If you've got something important to say, you can say it outside the factory doors.”

“I — I was —“ Mary chokes on her own words. The foreman is broad and looms like a skyscraper. His flower makes her feel like she’s an unpleasant stain beneath his boot.

“Sorry,” she finally manages. “I didn’t realize.”

The foreman’s blue fish-eyes narrow; his gaze flickers from the scant pile of waists in front of Mary to the idleness of her sewing machine and hands. When he bends down, she swears her heart is ready to leap out of her chest. His breath carries the heavy reek of salmon, and it smothers her.

“How long have you been working here,” he asks, “that you can’t keep up with a simple pace?”

Mary can barely speak. She tries to take a breath, fails, and swallows past a bone-dry mouth. “Just began today, sir.”

“Oh, really? Who hired you?”

Her pulse pounded in her ears. Her mind was racing; the chorus of sewing machines and girls breathing around her were all starting to blur into a feverish, deafening symphony. It shrieked in her ears, drowning everything else out — everything except the echo of the foreman’s question.

“I —“

“Oh!”

The sharp cry rings out a second before a mass of shirtwaists go tumbling off the table. One of the wicker baskets clatters to the ground at the foreman’s feet. Finished shirtwaists spill across the factory floor, a fabric-hewn tidal wave.

Mila presses her hands to her mouth, eyes wide. She is on her knees a second later, scrambling to pick up the products of her hard day’s labor. “Oh no, oh no — zay moykhl, Mr. Weiner, I — I’m sorry! Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to, the basket was heavy, I’m sorry —“

The foreman, sent into momentary shock by Mila’s profuse apologies, finally snaps back into himself. He kneels at Mila’s side, helping her gather up the rest of the waists.

“No harm done,” he says, nodding awkwardly to Mila as she continues pressing apologies into his hands. He quickly gathers up the full basket, and rises to his feet. While he has no clue what to do with a panicking teenage girl, he knows where to take product. “I’ll get these out of your way. Get back to work.”

“Yes — yes, sir!” Mila flashes him a beaming, relieved smile (the same smile that knocks Mary off her feet every time she sees it). Two seconds later, the foreman is gone, and Mila has slipped back to her place at the table. Her hands already work at another waist.

For just a second, she catches Mary’s eyes. Something sparks between them. Mary starts to mouth a thank you, but a shake of Mila’s head cuts her off.

No thanks necessary.

Mila would have done it for anyone.

* * *

Mary is so focused on her work that she almost doesn’t notice the way conversation starts to pick up around her; she doesn’t hear the drone on the sewing machines grow weaker, or the handful of women leaving their seats early.

She is only jarred when an hand her elbow startles her. When she looks up, Mila has already shut her machine off.

“Four-forty,” she says. “Saturday is payday. It’s time to get our checks and go home, Mary.”

Mary won’t be getting a check, because she doesn’t officially work here. The women striding through the aisles, handing out checks, don’t notice her; it is easy to overlook a single girl in a room of three hundred.

Mila’s face lights up as she receives her cream colored envelope. She begins to fumble for a pocket to put it in, and realizes too late that she has none. Her gaze flickers to the dressing room, which is already clogged with girls scrambling for her coats and hats. She lets out a grunt of annoyance.

Mila put her things in the dressing room this morning; Mary, not trusting it, chose to keep her coat draped over the back of her chair. She makes a split-second decision.

“Here,” she says, pushing the bundle of black wool at Mila. “I’ve got big pockets.”

Mila hesitates for just a second, eyes lingering on Mary, before she delicately takes the coat from her arms. Their hands brush one another, and a current of electricity shoots up to Mary’s elbow. She watches, heart pounding, and Mila’s deft hands slip her paycheck into the nearest pocket she can find.

“Nu, Mila!”

Mila’s head swivels around as a girl suddenly races up to her, her own coat draped over her arm. She is dressed in a plain blouse and pink skirt; her blonde hair is braided back, though flyaway curls still escape to frame her young face. When Mila sees her, she gives her first genuine smile of the day. “Vus machs da, Bess?”

The girl stops in front of her, eyes wide and eager. “Will you be able to go down to the Eden this weekend? I want to see The Lonedale Operator!”

“Is that the one with Blanche Sweet? I’ve been wanting to see it!”

“Can we go after work?”

“I should be able to —“ Mila begins, before cutting herself off. Her eyes flicker over to Mary, and something that looks almost like regret flickers through her eyes. For a second, Mary wonders if she’s going to invite her along — or use this excuse to escape her — before Mila turns back to her friend. “Bessie, motek, come here and meet my shiksa friend. She’s a reporter.”

Mila whispers this forbidden word with enough emphasis that Bessie (and Mary)’s eyes grow wide. “Mila!” Bessie gasps, remembering to lower her voice at the last moment. “Dos iz meshugge! You want to get sacked?”

“Relax, Bess, and trust me,” Mila retorts, guiding her friend towards Mary. She wears a painted-on grin, too artificial, too determined. Mary tries not to show how much it perturbs her.

"This is Bessie Goldstein! She works at the machine next to me. As far as I'm concerned, she's a regular genius."

The girl lets out a high-pitched giggle, swiping a hand at Mila. A friendly arm is cast over Bessie's slender shoulders; Mila guides her down the aisle towards Mary, nodding encouragement to her friend. Bessie's expression is trusting as she gazes back at her, so open and devoid of guile that she almost looks reverent towards Mila. Mary’s nerves twinge for a reason she doesn’t care to think about.

There is no question that Mila -- a social animal by nature -- has an entire circle of acquaintances outside of Mary. This is a truth she has always accepted. Mila's world lies beyond Mary’s eyes, beyond their cottage, the city streets, and the front of a packed union hall. This factory is yet another piece of Mila's life that Mary has never borne witness to before. It is not hers to witness; this side of Mila is one she has no claim over.

Mary is more than ever acutely aware that she is stepping into the other girl's world. Mila shares an effortless rapport with her friends, an understanding of shared experience that she and Mary can never have. Though Mary knows it is irrational, for some reason it makes her jealous.

(She wants this part of Mila, as much as all the rest of her. She wants to love Mila, the working girl, as much as she does Mila, the muse, or Mila, the face of the union. She wants to know all of Mila -- but after today, she will not know Mila at all.)

Mary shakes herself out of any semblance of discomfort, forcing a polite smile. "Pleased to meet you," she says, holding out a hand. "My name is Mary --"

Mila catches her eyes. Mary swallows back her own words, forcing herself to remember what she is doing. She can not afford to be sloppy, not when Meredith Bly is within arm's reach of her final (greatest) article. "Meredith Bly," she amends, offering the girl a smile. "I'm here to write about conditions in this factory, and you're my first star."

Bessie seems flustered at the praise, but pleased all the same. Her bright caramel eyes scan Mary for a moment, taking in the familiar guise of another factory worker, before a bit of tension drains out of her shoulders. "You've got a nice accent," she contributes in an admiring tone. "It's real classy. I like it."

"Thank you," says Mary. "I've had it all my life."

As casually as bringing up the weather, Mila leans forward and crooks a hand over her mouth, though she is obviously making no attempt to hide her words. "Bessie's real shy about her accent. It's a thing with some of the immigrant girls. They think they sound too foreign. Not that it bothers them when it's all of us here, but someone like you..."

"Oh," Mary says quietly. She hadn't realized that her accent might be offputting. (In retrospect, her earliest attempts at communicating with the factory girls before Mila have suddenly been cast in a new light.)

Bessie says something to Mila in rapid Yiddish, to which Mila fires back just as quickly. A catlike smile tugs at the corners of her lips. When she lays a hand on Mary's shoulder, it is only to push her forward. "Well, the lady wants to ask you questions. Go on, ask."

Bessie stares at Mary, brown eyes piercing. Suddenly Mary finds herself at a loss for words. She has a lot to say, sure, a lot of questions to ask -- but what can she inquire that Mila couldn't answer for her?

It occurs to Mary, in the split second of meeting Bessie's eyes, that they are not the right color. Like Alexander’s forest green, or Jack’s rich chestnut, they are just a shade off, not bright enough, not clever enough. They do not belong to Mila, and for that reason they are imperfect.

Mary wants her questions answered by the light in those familiar blue eyes. She does not want a stranger's thoughts. She wants Mila.

"Do you --" she says, and then halts. "Have you ever --"

What can she say? She has so many questions, swirling around in her head like an untamable hurricane. How can you think you never mattered to me? Do you really love me? How do I get you back?

Mila is staring at her, wide-eyed, urging her to speak. There is a familiar knit between her brows that speaks of masked anxiety, and Mary has the sudden urge to reach out and smooth it away with her fingertips. Instead, she swallows past the lump in her throat and forces herself to focus on Bessie.

"How do you feel about working here?" she finally manages to ask; and this is all she gets the chance to say.

A scream rings out at the same time a flash of red-hot light bursts at the corner of Mary’s vision. She reels around just in time for the scent of acrid smoke to hit her. A streak of flame is climbing up the wall at the far corner of the factory floor.

Across the room, a shrill cry pierces the air: “Dear god, fire!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the first was supposed to happen in this chapter, but it was too long, so I split it up. In the next chapter I finally get the the fire, jesus, after a whole year...


	12. chapter thirteen

The world goes up in smoke.

In mere seconds, it is everywhere — climbing the walls, streaking the ceiling, clogging the floor. The windows that open out to the air shaft show nothing but a wall of black soot and crimson glow. The labored vents spew a thick cloud of smoke that fans its way across the ceiling.

Worst of all are the flames clawing their way up the wall, like a blind animal desperate for a glimpse of the sun.

 _Fire._ Mary’s mind races; her body struggles to catch up. _Oh god, fire!_

In the wake of the first scream, the loft is consumed by noise; the sound of hundreds of screaming, panicking girls racing towards the nearest exit. At the sudden birth of the blaze, those nearest to it scramble away. Mila, who is closest to Mary, locks a hand around her arm. Bessie lets out a short scream.

“Where did it come from?” Mary blurts out. There are no answers; everyone is too horrified, too panicked.

Mila stumbles over her own feet as she scrambles away from the blaze, dragging Bessie with her. For some reason, Mary can not move. She is paralyzed by the heat of those flames, their ravenous glow radiating across the room to engulf her. Only a sharp tug on her arm jars her from her petrified trance.

“Does it matter?” Mila exclaims, eyes wide and wild. “Come on!”

Mila breaks the spell. Mila reminds her how to run.

Run Mary does, with the heat of flames snapping at her heels. Mila leads the way, and all Mary can do is follow her — down the long aisle between tables, crowded with baskets and girls as frightened as they are. With one hand around Mary’s wrist, Mila charges through the crowds without a whisper of hesitation. She is sure-footed and quick; her beeline is straight ahead, into the clear area outside of the rows of tables.

She’s headed for the nearest door, Mary realizes — the one that a mass of girls is rushing to at the same time.

The crowd reaches it a moment before they do. That is all the time it takes for it to become apparent that something is very, very wrong. A discordant shriek rings up from somewhere in the mass. Hands hammer at the shut door, pulling it, pushing it, slamming bodies up against it. The girls wail; they scream; they rage against fate.

Mary finally realizes what they’re saying when she is among them, yet another one of the crowd pushing at the inert door. “It’s locked,” the girl next to her is sobbing. “It’s _locked!_ My god!”

It is inconceivable. With fire pressing against their backs, how can the door not open? How is there no key, no trick of the lock, no way to push through this exit and into open air?

How can this one door be a death sentence?

Many girls stay, fighting against the barrier trapping them in this tiny pit of hell. Mila isn’t one of them. She feels around, and Mary catches a glimpse of her eyes, wide and frantic, darting around the room. Her mind is racing. Mila scans every inch of the factory she knows as well as her own hand for a plausible escape, and finds one.

“Come on,” she exclaims, and bolts out of the crowd once more. Desperate, Mary follows her.

The smoke has not yet begun to blacken her vision, but the room is already so hazy. The windows have shattered from the immense heat, but no light filters into the loft from the world outside. The fire has swallowed that up, along with everyone else. Mary tries to take a breath, but her lungs fill with soot; she winds up coughing and heaving, even as her body keeps propelling her forwards.

They make it to the window just ahead of a handful of other stampeding girls; just in time for Mary to see where Mila’s idea has taken her.

The fire escape is nine stories above the ground — old, rickety, and looking as if it hasn’t been tested in years. The catwalk is narrow, three feet across at most, and the drop would be devastating. It’s a death trap.

Yet it’s the only way out that Mary can see.

Mila gives her a shove, hard and firm towards the window. Mary falls against the sill, barely catching herself. Her eyes are trained up at the blue sky so far above when Mila’s voice cuts through her frantic mind. “Where’s Bess?”

Mary can’t hear. She prays she’s only misunderstood. “What?”

“Bess, she’s gone, she’s —“ Mila’s Wild gaze scours the room, face desperate. She lets out a gasp that sounds like a sob, and presses her hand to her mouth.

A sharp elbow connects with Mary’s shoulder as she’s shoved out of the way. One girl, then another, scrambles onto the escape. They are followed by a steady stream of others, but no pink skirt and blonde hair, no sweet doe eyes. No Bessie.

She must have fallen behind, gotten lost in the swell. Maybe she’s still screaming at the locked door.

Mila turns back to her, a breathless expression on her face. She grabs hold of Mary’s shoulder and clasps it tight for one second; her touch burns Mary’s skin hotter than any fire. When Mila’s eyes lock with hers, lightning flashes through their deep blue depths.

“Mary, go!” she says, and shoves her backwards. “Get out!”

Mary’s hands slam against the windowsill. She can feel the whisper of the spring breeze on her face. Free air is tantalizing, hovering just out of reach of her burning lungs, but she cannot leave Mila. “You —“

“I’ll be right behind you, I have to get Bess!” Mila gives her another push, all but hauling her onto the fire escape. _“Go!”_

She pulls away, and that’s all Mary is left with: lightning bolts slicing through wild blue eyes, and Mila’s face setting in determination a second before she turns away. Back into the smoke. Back into the blaze.

Just like that, Mila is swallowed up by the abyss.

There is nothing Mary can do; and, god help her, she can not force herself to charge back into that burning room. She scrambles the rest of the way out the window, hauls herself to her feet, gathers up her skirts, and runs.

She runs for her life. She runs across a thin walkway, with metal creaking beneath her feet and smoke licking her heels. She runs with the city a dizzying eighty foot drop below her. She runs with girls at her sides and behind her, elbowing, shoving, and screaming. She runs even when she hears the clang of metal behind her, like a gate slamming closed — and she does not stop to see what it is.

Mary runs until the escape beneath her gives one last, awful shriek… and suddenly ceases to exist.

There is no time to realize what has happened until she is already falling. The world drops out from under her in a crumble of twisted, melting metal. For one brief second, everything remains in stasis. Mary does not fall out of the air. She remains frozen, gaping up at the sky above her, wide open and stretching a canvas of endless blue across the entire city. There isn’t a cloud in the sky.

The next second, Mary falls.

She is one of a dozen, two dozen, more bodies plunging towards the pavement. Air drags it’s coarse fingers through her hair, snapping at her bare skin and swallowing her shriek. Any hope of balance flees in an instant. Her heart leaps into her throat; the world swoops past her in a blur. All Mary can do is flail.

When her hands snag on something solid, it is nothing short of a miracle. Her weight snaps back. A jolt of shock runs up her arms, but she holds fast, digging her nails into the surface beneath her grip. Her hands are locked on something rough; it takes a few panicked seconds for Mary to realize it is a windowsill.

The window above her is shut, and there is no way for her to reach up to open it. Concrete crumbles beneath her fingers; her feet scramble against brick for purchase where there is none to be found. Mary looks down, and sees a six story drop down into a churning mass of smoke. Her eyes widen; she lets out a wall of terror.

There is no way for her to scramble up, and no way to let go. Below her, a mass of twisted metal awaits her with a gaping maw. Small fires burn in the alley, reaching tendrils of smoke up to wrap around her ankles. A pillar of flame comes swooping down, close enough for Mary to touch. It takes her a long, agonized second to realize that the burning mass was screaming.

Bodies are falling all around her, in various stages of flame. Just over her shoulder, a girl flails on her way to the ground, wearing a heavy skirt of fire. Another tumbles head over heels until she vanishes into the chasm.

Another scream tears from Mary’s throat. She tilts her head up, gaping up at her only salvation: the shut window.

If she could just pull herself up… if she could just hammer on it; break it; let someone know what she’s here, dangling over Hell without even a rope to keep her up… if someone would pull her in…

“Help!” she cries around a lungful of smoke. “Please help!”

Another body falls over her shoulder; Mary looks down just in time to see the girl get impaled clean through by the metal spikes of a fence down below. One of her hands slips on the sill.

She scrambles for a better hold, but winds up losing her balance. One hand falls away entirely, and then she is holding on with just one hand, desperate to keep herself up. She’s going to drop. She’s going to fall, she’s going to _die_ —

Mary loses her grip.

In the split second that she is airborne, the rest of the world ceases to exist. The only thing that is or ever has been real is the flash of Mila running back into that factory, the smoke swallowing her up once more. As her own abyss reaches up to claim her, all Mary can think is that she is as lost as Mila.

Then an iron grip locks around her arm, and the next thing she knows, she is being hauled back from the brink of death.

Her shoulder smacks the windowframe on her way inside, and for one awful moment she is sure she will get stuck; but the next thing she knows is solid ground beneath her knees, and a room blissfully free of smoke.

It takes a moment to catch up with the realization that she is no longer falling. She inhales a lungful of fresh, clean air. Her hands press against the dirty floor, desperate to soak up every ounce of stability that it offers. Only when the pulse of her heart pounding in her ears dies down is she able to hear the voice above her.

“Get up! Come on, you need to get out of here! Go, now!”

 _“Go,”_ Mila’s voice hisses in her ear, and Mary scrambles to her feet.

The fireman above her is burly and towering, his heavy coat consuming so much of him that Mary barely registers him as a man at all. Only his eyes -- wide and as stunned as he is, peering at her from a soot-covered face -- confirms that she has been saved by a human, and not an angel.

Mary says nothing. She only lets out a gasp, and scrambles away.

The stairway is already filling with smoke, but the further down she runs, the thinner it becomes, One floor after another is left in her wake. When she breaks out into the lobby, the air is clear, the wide open windows are gazing out at the sky.

Some firemen are ushering a group of frightened, ash-streaked girls into the corner of the lobby; Mary doesn’t look twice at them. She streaks out the front doors, ignoring the shout that echoes behind her. No force on earth could get her to turn back into that building. Her eyes are fixed on the wide, open sky.

A crowd is waiting as she bursts out the doors. They clog the streets, cutting off traffic, clustering along the edges of buildings. Few people dare to step onto the sidewalk, which is already dominated by police and firemen scuttling back and forth like cockroaches in a kitchen. Mary bursts past them, shooting straight for the crowd. It welcomes her with open arms.

A young woman is gaping at her; as soon as Mary stops running, hands on her knees as she gasps for breath, there is a hand on her back. “Are you alright, dear? Are you hurt?”

Mary looks up into the stranger’s kind eyes and shakes her head. She is fine. Her lungs burn, her limbs ache, her heart feels ready to burst out of her chest… but she is alive.

How is she alive? _Why_ is she alive?

She remains hunched over, just focusing on breathing, until the first thud sounds. It is too loud, somehow -- deafening. It echoes throughout the world.

Mary does not realize what it is until she looks up, just in time to see another body hit the pavement.

They fall like raindrops. The pavement rushing up to greet them faster than horrified onlookers get a chance to react. First it is one, then another; then two girls leap from the window, hands clasped together. They hit the ground with a noise that echoes like a gunshot, and crumple to the pavement. The life leaves them in an instant. With one single, resounding impact, they are gone.

Mary heaves in a stranded gasp that catches in her throat. The woman next to her presses her hands over her mouth. All around her, shouts of horror ring out through the crowd. They gape up at the mass of girls leaning out the windows, clawing and screaming into the open air as if straining for an invisible ladder. Thick smoke pours from the windows. Flames press at their backs.

“Don’t jump!” someone hollers. “Help is coming!”

Help takes the form of a ladder, reaching two floors too low. The New York City Fire Department has the most advanced technology in the world. There could be no one else better suited to handle this disaster; and yet all they have is not enough.

It is not enough for the trapped workers at the top of their gilded tower. It is not enough to snatch them away from the flames and bring them back to earth. It is not enough for Bessie, for Tessa, for Isaac, for the women at lunch, and that little girl who looked so small behind her machine. It is not enough for Mila.

 _Nothing_ — the ladders, the firefighters, the wide blue sky — is enough.

Nothing can save them.

Mary lets out a wail and buried her face in her hands. She can not stand to look; this is the last thing she wants to see. Yet she can not turn away.

The police scramble to set up a net across the sidewalk already strewn with bodies. No sooner have they gotten it up than one body comes down and hits it hard. The girl’s purse flies out of her hands with the impact. She bounces once, rolls, and lands onto the sidewalk.

A police officer hauls her to her feet. Mary sees her dark hair hanging wild about her face, her singed dress, the shadowed pits where her eyes should be. The officer shoves her towards the ground.

The girl stumbles forwards a few feet. She looks up, and eyes wide as the sky lock with Mary’s own.

Then, the girl crumples to the pavement.

People rush to help her, but it is too late. Mary _knows_ that it is too late, with as much certainty as she knows her own name. There’s no saving them.

As the fire intensifies, more girls spill out the window. One after the other, some in pairs, some in couples. A few fling their purses out after them, as if hoping to catch them as they fall. One girl tries to dangle out the window and drop to the ladders down below; she misses, and slides the long drop to the pavement. Someone is still screaming as they come down, their shrill wail cut off only by the sharp impact of body against ground.

At some point, police give up trying to catch them. All must come down, and they can only let them fall.

Mary watches on in horror, unable to tear her eyes away. Two women hug each other as they plummet. One tiny body is accidentally elbowed out by the writhing mass, and drops to the ground screaming.

A man hoists himself up on the window ledge and gasps in a precious breath of air; then he turns, and reaches back into the blaze. He lifts out a girl and pulls her forward, holding her away from him like lifting a lover onto a train platform. She does not struggle as her feet dangle in midair; the fear on her face is overrides by trust. The man swings her out, and lets her go.

He does this again, with another girl; and again, with a third. When he reaches back in a fourth time, Mary wants to scream, but no words come out.

This time, a bolt of recognition shoots through Mary as another girl is hoisted up onto the sill. She recognizes that wide hair bow, that dark braid. Tessa, with her rich accent and laughing eyes, clings to this man like a lifeline.

The man draws her close to him. Quick as a flash, Tessa lunges forward and kisses him hard, fierce, as if stealing her last breath of air from his lungs.

Then she drops. A few seconds later, the man plunged off the sill after her.

One girl fights to keep her balance in midair, twisting her arms and straightening her feet even as her skirts balloon around her. The ground rushes up to greet her. She bends her knees in anticipation of impact —

And then she is nothing but a limp body on the ground.

 _Mila._ In the depths of her shocked mind, one name churns within. _Mila, Mila. Where is Mila?_

Mila is going to sprint out the front door, just as Mary did moment ago. Mila will see her and rush forward, catching her up in a hug so fierce that Mary will not be able to breathe.

Mila will scale the building, climbing with extreme care until she reaches the ladders, and can drop into a fireman’s waiting arms. She will stand up on her own and smile, because she is alive —

Mila is alive. She will live. She can never die, because she is young, and vibrant, and more full of life than anyone Mary has ever known. Mila is too much to die like this.

Mila is —

A shriek rings out from someone within the crowd. Mary’s eyes widen. From the window, a body plummets; she toppled more than she jumps, going backwards, her arms flailing the whole way down. She is screaming. Her head is one giant mass of flame, bright red and blazing, but Mary can make out one thing as clearly as if staring into a picture frame.

Her burning skirts are blue. Her blouse is white. And Mary would swear to the mighty god in heaven that her burning hair is a cloud of red curls.

_Mila._

For one long, awful moment, the pillar of fire falls to the ground. Then she hits, and it is all over.

Mary lets out a shriek, and tears at her face with jagged nails. The image of the burning girl is burned into her retinas; she can feel the flames licking her own skin, hear the shrieks tearing from her own throat.

She cannot stay here. She needs to _go._

Before she can turn, her eyes are drawn up one last time. With a chorus of screams that seem more like a roar, a sea of people tumble from the windows. Thirty, forty people all at once — many in flames, many gripping the windowsill until they are shoved back by something outside of their control. These are the worst, because they do not choose to jump; they are forced. Many are burning as they fall.

A thousand stars, falling from the sky. Burning comets. Cinders falling from a lit match. _Falling, falling, falling…_

They slam against the pavement, and Mary feels Mila’s hand brush across the back of her neck. She needs to go.

In the chaos of the fire, no one notices a long ash-streaked girl fleeing the other way. Mary dodges through a seemingly endless crowd, head ducked low. Every gasp for breath is torture. Her heart hammers in her chest; her head is spinning. At one point she doubles over, vomits into a gutter, then gets up and keeps running.

She does not know where she is going. She is going nowhere; she is running, because that is all she can do.

She would have continued running to the end of the earth were it not for the sudden grip on her arms that stopped her dead, or the voice slicing through the haze of her mind.

“— Mary? Hey, Boss, look at me — Mary, come on. What on earth —“

Her head jolts up, eyes wide and panicked, only for her to come face to face with Jack Halloran.

The sight of a familiar face does nothing for her. She is able to recognize him, but nothing else. Smoke swirls at the corners of her vision. Mila is lingering just over Jack’s shoulder, her hair a mass of flames.

She can not remember how to breathe. Words spill past her lips before she can stop them, breathless and broken. “Jack, what happened? What happened?”

“What happened to me? What happened to _you?_ Was there a fire? The Triangle is — you --“ Realization settles in his eyes. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

“That’s my name.” Mary gasps for a breath, and can find no air. “That’s me. Mistress Mary, quite contrary… how does your garden grow?”

“Look at me,” Jack pleads. Mary can only stare at Mila, burning.

“Fire doesn’t like the flowers. Oh, it _hates_ them, doesn’t it? _Doesn’t it?_ Oh!”

And suddenly she is that poor girl, rolling out of the firemen’s net and onto the pavement, taking a few steps only to crumple. She feels the world drop out from under her, just like that gnarled fire escape. The only thing that keeps her from hitting the pavement (with a thud, thud, thud, a thousand bodies hitting the ground) is Jack swooping in to catch her.

“She’s gone,” is all Mary is able to gasp out, the blue sky above her blurring beneath a haze of smoke. Everything is too hot, too dizzy. She never got out of the fire at all. She is still there, still burning.

Her vision starts to go black, but all the can see is that flailing, flaming body rushing to meet the pavement.

She’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe I finally burned the freaking factory


	13. chapter fourteen

Jack takes her home. She stumbles through the doorway and into her father’s arms. She takes a bath. She goes to sleep.

When she wakes up, her clothes are missing, the smoke is gone, and her room is filled with the glow of a warm spring morning.

Mary leans back in bed and stares up at the ceiling. When the tentative maid leaves breakfast at the foot of her bed, she doesn’t touch it. Hours drift by in a haze, half-awake and half-asleep, until she finally succumbs to the lure of rest once more.

When she wakes up again, it is a new day. A new week, actually. She remembers nothing of the five days that have passed since Jack carried her home in a dead faint.

On the sixth day, Mary pulls herself out of bed. She bathes on her own; she washes her hair, adorns it with sweet-smelling perfume, powders her face, dresses in her favorite gown. Then she goes down for breakfast.

Her mother and father are at the table already. When Mary slips in to join them, they both stare at her, as if she is a ghost come back to haunt them.

“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” She asks.

Neither of them reply.

A comfortable grin slips onto Mary’s face. Yes, it is certainly a beautiful day. “Mother,” she says, voice light, “why don’t we go down to the Colony Club for lunch today?” 

* * *

She does not mourn for Mila.

There is no time; no chance; no freedom. The memory of Mila’s burning body plummeting to the asphalt remains fresh in her mind. It is constantly there; every time Mary closes her eyes, she sees Mila fall.

The ghost of Mila lingers over her shoulder as she slowly remembers how to resume her life. The first time Mary steps out her front door, a gust of cool breeze whips her hat from her head, and she swears she feels icy fingers caress her hand. Alone in her room at night, with nothing but the wavring glow of candles and her own humming to keep her company, Mary pours over books -- Anne of Green Gables -- and catches a flash of red hair from the corner of her eye. When she is busy playing croquet or tennis, attending picnics and lunches, being fitted for her wedding gown… she swears she hears the echo of familiar laughter.

To Mary, Mila is not dead. She is a phantom, lurking in the shadows of her consciousness. She is forever alive, suspended in that one awful moment in the air. She is a star, falling to earth in a ball of flame. Her final moments stretch out into eternity. She is alive to feel her every cell burn in agony, forever.

Just as the world could not let Mila live, Mary can not let her die.

How cruel does that make her? How wicked, how selfish? She knows she is not mourning for Mila. She is grieving over a loss that was never hers to begin with.

(What did she matter to Mila in the end? Mila died hating her. The last day of Mila’s life was spent enduring her presence for as long as she had to — and if Mary was not in the factory that day, _maybe,_ maybe Mila would have lived.)

She has to inflict the torture of memory on herself, because accepting that Mila is gone is an agony all of its own. As long as she holds on to that last moment of a burning girl, Mila is still here — she has left something behind. Her entire existence has not been reduced to echoes of laughter and ashes.

_“Go! Mary, go! Get out!”_

She never should have gone.

_“I’ll be right behind you, go!”_

She never should have left her.

_“Go!”_

But she did, and Mila never got the chance to do the same.

Mary goes through the motions of a good society girl, and feels herself slowly begin to remember things she’d nearly forgotten. Conversing with her fellow vapid heiresses becomes easy again. She can keep up with gossip about the Astors and Morgans, the latest Egyptian tours, and handsome new actors in the moving pictures. All of this is so empty that it’s easy. She feels safe in these conversations, these words that demand nothing from her, with friends who don’t really know her at all.

Only one person was able to bring out a side of her that Mary never knew existed. Mila was a sanctuary that made her feel safe, free. She saw something in her that no one else has ever seen. With Mila, Mary became a different person.

Now Mila is dead, and deep down, Mary fears that new self has died with her.

So, she picks up her day-to-day life, and does not feel, does not mourn. She does everything she can to leave the ashes behind her… and with it, the ghosts of the people she lost.

Letting Mila die seems like the cruelest indignity, but Mary doesn’t see anything else she can do.

* * *

The ring on Mary’s finger catches the light, sending hundreds of glimmering rainbow fractals across the patio floor. Madeline van Rensselaer gasps, pressing both hands to her mouth. When she leans forward in delight, her heeled shoes brush against the ground.

“Oh, gorgeous! How divine, Mary, how simply divine!”

“You’re awfully lucky to have such a generous fiance,” Edith Walker adds, fingers pursed around a tiny watercress sandwich. “The ring Harry bought me was a quarter that size. You’re practically wearing the whole diamond mine.”

“Not everyone can be engaged to a jewelry magnet.”

“If there’s one thing the Kincaids know, it’s wedding rings!”

Mary takes a sip of her lemonade. The liquid slides down her throat, cool and sweet, with a lingering tartness that she can almost ignore. When she pulls away, a beaming smile graces her face.

“Yes,” she agrees. “I couldn’t be more fortunate, could I?”

“Absolutely not!”

“You’re the luckiest girl in the world, Mary,” Elizabeth Sachs-Campbell adds, brushing a loose petal from her intricate floral updo off her shoulder. “You’ve known your beau for years! Mummy insists that I ought to be so proud to be engaged to nobility, but I’ve never even met Count Bellmarie before. If Mummy hadn’t pulled her strings with our European family, the engagement would never have been set up at all.”

Madeline’s mouth drops open. “You get to become a countess, how dare you say one ungrateful word!”

“Of a castle I’ve never seen, in a country I’ve never been in.” Elizabeth’s eyes drop to her lap. “Married to a man I’ve never met.”

For a moment, no one says a word. The notion lingers uncomfortably in the air between them. Mary frowns down at her wedding ring, and considers that perhaps she really _is_ lucky.

Then Edith barks out a laugh. The tension throughout the room shatters like a pane of glass. “Don’t be fanciful!” she says. “When are marriages ever made happier by _knowing_ your spouse? The less I know about my beau, the better.”

“Heaven forbid Stephen found out what a ruthless bridge player I am!” Madeline chimes in.

Just like that, the uncomfortable atmosphere vanishes. The girls burst into giggles once more, and any lingering tension dissipates like smoke in the wind. Mary finds herself smiling around the rim of her glass, and it takes her a moment to realize she has no idea why.

“Marrying for love,” declares Edith, “is a privilege of the lower class.”

Her mind flashes back, short and sharp — _Mila._ Her image is like the flash of a camera, searing itself into her brain. Mary inhales; she feels as if she’s been punched in the stomach.

(For a moment, she almost came close to _forgetting.)_

She doesn’t say another word for the rest of lunch. It is no surprise at all that no one notices.

* * *

Her wedding dress is a cascade of silk and lace, falling around her waist like a waterfall. The fabric is delicate gossamer, spun like butterfly wings. It falls in three layers, each one more fragile than the last, trailing off into a translucent train at her feet.

They don’t go with a Lucile design. At the last minute, her mother decides she wants something far more elaborate, and orders from Paris instead. Mary has no idea what to expect until the morning she is whisked into the sunroom to find her gleaming gown settled on a mannequin standing in the middle of the floor.

The bodice is a mass of lace and diamonds, embroidered in a flowering pattern. The sleeves end at her shoulders, delicate and frilled with a loose train of lace. Mary was prepared for a stiff collar, stretching up every pale inch of her throat as of desperate to strangle her. Instead, the collar dips low and lower — a high lace in front that stops safely above her breasts, while falling into a daring dip in the back.

It feels unexpectedly free; not at all like the prison she imagined.

Her mother takes a wide step back, and presses her hands to her mouth. Across the room, Mrs. DeKay, the family’s housekeeper since Mary was a child, has tears in her eyes.

“Lovely, my dear,” Mrs. DeKay exclaims. “Absolutely lovely!”

“It’s _perfect!”_ her mother declares. Her pride is fierce and furious, burning through her like the toll of victory bells. She places her hands on her hips and shakes her head, beaming. Mary forces herself to stand tall under these admiring stares. She does not flinch, and does not wilt.

 _I’m beautiful,_ she reminds herself. _This is just the way it’s supposed to be._

The dress is not a prison, and she is not condemned. No one is leading her to the gallows; Mary is walking forward willingly.

She takes a few steps forward, and views herself in the wide triple-mirror in the corner of the room. Three reflections stare back at her; Mary locks eyes with the girl in the center, and tries to smile.

The reflection’s face does not change. Her face does not brighten; her lips do not twitch.

Mary allows her eyes to shut for the briefest moment before turning back to her mother. “I love it,” she declares. “It really is the perfect dress.”

The perfect dress to walk down the aisle in, and leave everything else behind. It is the perfect dress, because when Mary looks into the mirror, she does not recognize the girl reflected back at all.

* * *

People try to talk to her. Of course they do. There is no escaping the whispers and concerned stares of the household staff, who all saw her stumble through the doorway singed and half-crazed the day of the fire. Mary hears them tiptoe around her. She knows they all have their own theories as to what happened, but no one dares ask outright. Instead, her catatonia — and subsequent soaring recovery — has become the subject of fascination for the household. She is the star of her own opera, and they are the audience holding their breaths for the next tragedy.

Worse by far is the way her own parents treat her.

Mary’s mother does not know how to deal with what happened, so she does not acknowledge it at all. She has always been the sort of woman who can push her concerns away; the entire world looks so much prettier on the surface, gilded and simple, that she works hard to never look any deeper. Mary’s mother can not understand the change that has overcome her daughter. She can not see the invisible scars that have been burned into her skin; all Mrs. Merran can see is a daughter who returned home broken, and has now seemingly recovered. More than that — now she is genial, warm, and happy. (So what if she occasionally drifts off mid-sentence, and there is a haunted depth to her eyes, an ocean of sadness beside of her just barely iced over? Mary still smiles, so her mother is able to ignore all of that. Things are always easier on the surface.)

Her father is the one who worries, but he is no more sure of how to react than Mary’s mother. A year ago, he would have known his daughter. Now, though, the well that has grown between them seems unreachable, and he is not sure how to start. Her father sees things that no one else does. Mary catches him staring when her hand trembles around her teacup. Upon becoming lost in the dance of a candle’s flame, the only thing that jarred her from her trance was her father’s hand on her arm. Mary, in the style of her recently returned self, had not jerked away; she only smiles at him, and promises that she was fine.

Her father treats her like a china doll. One wrong touch will break her, and she will never be pieced back together again.

“Mary,” he says one evening, after mother has retired and the maids have cleaned up dessert. Mary, perched on the lounge chair with a book in her lap, looks up sharply. Her father hesitates for a few seconds before settling down next to her.

Trepidation lines his face. It makes him look a decade older. At this point, Mary has a hard time ever picturing her father young and carefree; perhaps he never was.

“There’s no need for you to… force yourself into marriage. This arrangement was made with your own well-being in mind. You’ve made your feeling clear, however, and… in light of recent events, if you wanted to postpone the wedding —“

“I don’t wish to postpone the wedding,” Mary interjects. “That’s absolutely not what I want to do.”

“To break the engagement, then.” Her father speaks these words like a suggestion. Six months ago, this is all Mary wanted. Now they just ring hollow in her ears. “If you wish to put a stop to this, you can. Your mother will understand. The Kincaids will understand. You don’t need to worry.”

Mary says nothing. She only shakes her head.

She sees a flush of frustration rise high on her father’s ruddy cheeks. He reaches out and seizes her hands, clasping them in his own. The gesture is at once deeply personal and impersonal; like he is trying to intimate himself with a stranger.

“You aren’t happy, Mary. This isn’t what you want. Whatever happened to you, it’s changed things. You’ve changed. The last thing in the world I could stand to see is you losing that fight you’ve always had. That one thing that keeps you alive… if that light goes out inside of you, I don’t know how I could live with myself.”

He draws a deep breath, and squeezes her hands tight. Her father’s eyes gleam with emotion. Mary realizes with a jolt that this is the first time he has truly bared his heart to her — perhaps ever, in her entire life. She has never seen such an honest side of her father, and it startles her.

“Pleas, Mary,” he says. “It isn’t too late.”

Mary draws a deep breath, and feels the untruth of his words ringing like a great church bell in her chest. Her father has never been so open with her, and his honesty stings worse than any lie. He cannot stand seeing her light go out, but he was willing to force her into marriage in the first place. He declared that she would have to marry, and now he’s going back on those words — only because he feels that something inside of Mary has broken.

If she is no longer fit to be a daughter, or a wife… then what is she?

How can she look her father in the eyes again, having seen this side of him, and knowing what a hypocrite he is? This is the man who calls himself a liberal and agrees that workers have a right to be safe in their factories, yet refuses to condemn the corporations who enslave them. This is the same man who claims to love his daughter for her fighting spirit, yet was willing to crush it.

Her father is a hypocrite to his core… and Mary is exactly like him. She has always been her father’s daughter.

She straightens her spine, drawing herself to her full height, and regards him with dignity. A small smile twitches across her lips; it leaves a sour aura in her mouth.

“You and I both know it is too late,” she replies. “It has been too late for me for a long while.”

“That’s not true,” her father pleads. Mary shakes her head.

“You’re giving me away, Daddy,” she tells him, and smiles wide. “Be happy. For us. This is the way things are meant to be.”

* * *

Two Sundays before the wedding, Jack Halloran visits her.

The only thing that surprises Mary is that he doesn’t show up sooner. Knowing Jack, she’d have expected him to be hammering at her door the day after the incident. Instead, he has the decency of waiting more than a month.

Maybe it’s Mary’s fault for not contacting him. Honestly, the thought never passes through her head. Jack is her friend, after all, but his existence is inextricably tied into so many things she’s trying hard not to think about. Jack Halloran gets packed away and shoved to the back of her mind with everything else… until he shows up at her door one day.

Her eyes are closed; she’s sitting in the middle of the parlor, drinking in the soft glow of the sun on her face. The room is silent, aside from the soft footsteps that echo and stop just a short ways from her. When Mary looks up to meet a familiar, dagger-sharp reporter’s gaze, she isn’t surprised at all.

“Jack,” she says, sitting up straight. Her mouth shuts, and her lips tighten of their own accord. After a few seconds, she adds, “it’s been a while.”

“Hasn’t it?” Jack lowers his head, and takes two steps into the room. It’s a polite gesture, for him. When he looks up again, she can’t miss the flicker of discomfort in his face. It is the first time that she has ever seen him look unsure of himself.

For a moment, silence stretches between them. Finally, he says, “You look well, Boss.”

“I am, thank you.”

Something clicks inside Mary, like a key turning inside a lock. All at once, smiling is the most natural thing in the world. She is a _hostess,_ and he is her guest. She knows what she is supposed to do.

“Won’t you sit down?” she asks, rising to her feet and gesturing to the chaise she was just lounging upon. “It’s a lovely day, so there’s no better place to chat than out here, but if all the sun bothers you, we can draw a few curtains. Don’t you just love springtime weather? Oh, do you feel like any refreshments? I’ll have Liza bring in some lemonade or ginger ale, just hold on a moment —“

He catches her by the arms, forcing her to stop. His grip is not rough, but it burns Mary anyway. She looks up at him, eyes going wide with shock.

“That isn’t what I’d like, Boss,” Jack says. He releases her quickly, as if regretting that he touched her at all, but doesn’t look hesitant. “I just came to see you. Nothing else.”

“Well.” Her smile is more defiant than anything else she could say, and ten times more desperate. “Here I am.”

“Are you?”

Jack’s question catches her off-guard. She blinks, and swallows hard, the smile slipping from her face.

“What do you —“

“Is this really you? All this wedding preparations, and the smiles, and the pretty little bridal parties? This sure ain’t the Mary Merran I know, and I think I know you pretty well, after all this time.”

Mary swallows hard. A chill has settled inside her chest. It rattles with every breath, flooding through her like a tidal wave.

“You don’t know me as well as you think, Jack,” she replies softly.

“I know the Mary who was a reporter. The one who wouldn’t let anything stop her. Who wouldn’t slow down for anyone. Last I checked, _that_ Mary had no intention of getting married.”

Mary opens her mouth to protest, but Jack cuts her off. “You said you’d rather die.”

She closes her eyes. Her words from that awful night, so many lifetimes ago, still echo in her head. She remembers the glow of the streetlights gleaming off Mila’s hair, illuminating the tears streaking down her face. She remembers the flint of her engagement ring in that tiny little box, and the look of shame on Alexander’s face. She can still hear Mila’s voice in her head, clear as if she’s speaking right next to her.

_“I never want to see you again!”_

(She died _hating_ her. If Mary had just stayed away, Mila would still be alive, she wouldn’t have burned to death, trapped a hundred feet above the earth —)

She doesn’t realize her hands are trembling until she follows Jack’s gaze. Mary laces her fingers, hastily turning away.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Halloran, but I’m very busy. If you’d like to stay and chat, you’re more than welcome, but I really must get back to work.”

“Work?” Jack asks, voice sharp.

Mary doesn’t look back at him. “A wedding won’t plan itself, you know.”

For a long moment, Jack is silent. Somehow, this is more piercing than anything he could say. His silence chokes her. Mary finds herself incapable of forming a single sentence of her own.

Finally, he heaves a long sigh. “So. It’s happening.”

“Yes, Jack. It is happening.”

She hears his footsteps follow her across the room, but she refuses to turn back to him. If she does, she is certain that she will be laid bare. Her carefully-painted china doll's face is chipping, crumbling away like a mask of ash, leaving her raw and vulnerable. Without the sanctuary of her role as a bride and society girl… Mary has nothing to hide behind. She cannot escape the ghosts of the fire that linger behind her. She cannot hide from Mila’s memory.

If she turns to Jack, he will see, and he will know. She keeps her eyes trained out the window, allowing the sun to shine on her face. It really is a _beautiful_ day.

He comes up behind her. She can feel his presence looming, silent and resolute. Even when he isn’t saying a word, Jack is demanding.

“You don’t want to hear this, but you need to. Have you even looked at a newspaper, Mary?”

No, she hasn’t. Since that day, she’s gone out of her way to avoid newspapers as much as possible. Her parents keep them — and any talk of the fire — out of the house.

“They’ve released names of the dead, Mary. Pulitzer’s _World_ compiled the best list, but every paper’s got something. I scoured all of them. Mary, her name isn’t there. No one has listed Mila among the dead.”

Mary swallows hard. The world is unsteady around her. Her eyes burn. “There were a lot of bodies.”

“Six are still unidentified,” Jack admits. “But Mary, no one’s found her yet. She could still be —“

Mila is dead. Mary _knows_ this, with as much certainty as she knows her own name. She saw it happen. She saw Mila come down, like a star falling from the sky. She heard the thud of her burning body as it hit the pavement, the sound of life leaving her forever.

If there are six bodies who have been reduced to nothing but ash, Mila is certainly one of them.

“— I’m telling you, you don’t _know_ if she’s really —“

Jack,” she says in a low voice, “I need you to go.”

“No, I’m not going to go.” Jack seizes her by the arm. Involuntarily, Mary freezes up; a sob catches in her chest, unable to force its way up her throat. “Listen, Boss, you’re not using your head. You realize what you’re doing here?”

“Of course I realize,” she hisses.

“You realize you’re giving your life up? You realize you can’t go back? If you get married, you don’t know what you might be —“

Mary rounds on him, blazing. She’s reached her final straw. Her heart feels like it’s being wrenched from her chest, and she cannot bear Jack’s hand on her arm, can’t stand to listen to him a second longer. “I do! I do, I _do!_ How stupid do you think I am, Jack?”

How dare he come into her home a criticize her for living? For surviving, in the only way she knows how? Mary isn’t Jack — she’s not tough-as-nails, not street-smart, could never go through a tragedy like losing her whole family to the flu and use it to make her stronger. She doesn’t have his resilience. All she has is herself, and she has to cling to that fiercely. There is _nothing else_ left to her.

“There are things about me that you can’t understand,” she hisses. “Don’t you dare act as if you know better than me. You have no right to call me wrong! You don’t know what I saw that day! You don’t know what I lost, what almost became of me! If I had died there, I would be another unidentified body. No one would ever know what happened to me! I have to live with that every day, and you know what? _I am still alive._ Those poor girls can’t say that. _Mila_ can’t say that. I can.”

She forces a deep breath into her lungs. When she breathes out, she is calmer; at the very least, she can think straight. A cold resolution settles inside her chest, and she allows the chill to numb her.

“Mila is dead,” she says. “All I can do is live.”

She hears Jack take a step back. The absence of his presence over her shoulder helps her feel like she can breathe again.

“Is this the way she’d want you to do it?” he asks quietly. Mary bows her head, and forces herself to smile.

Of course it isn’t. If there’s one thing Mila had no respect for, it was people who settle. She despised her factory for it, and she would despise Mary just as much. In marrying Alexander, Mary is letting the woman she loves down.

She only hopes that Mila can forgive her, wherever she is.

When she turns to face Jack again, her smile is back on her face. Once again, she is calm and in control. The perfect society girl has returned, and Mary is happy to stay hidden behind her.

“Don’t be silly, Jack,” she says, and takes him by the arm. “Things aren’t as grim as you see them. Can’t you be happy for me?”

Jack stares at her for a long moment. Then he smiles, slow and sad.

“I’ll do my best, Boss.”

“Good.” Mary’s smile strains the corners of her mouth, sending a spiderweb of cracks along the surface of her mask. She only hopes Jack cannot see them. “Because you’d better save the date — you’re invited to the wedding!”


	14. chapter fifteen

Her wedding takes place on a glowing, warm day near the end of May.

They are lingering just on the cusp of spring and summer, and everything about the morning makes this clear. From the playful chill that lingers in the air until the sun takes over, chasing the last vestiges of night away; the sweet smell of grass and flowers drifting like honey through the air; to the birds that chorus in the trees as Mary and her party load themselves into the carriage.

 _Her party_ consists of her mother and the three Kincaid women — Mrs. Kincaid, Henrietta, and Elizabeth. Her mother gave her the option of inviting any other friends along. Mary did not want to. Who is surrounding her on this particular morning does not matter as much as what she is about to do.

The ceremony begins at noon. By one o’clock, Mary will be a married women.

Even the notion is dizzying. She leans her head against the window as their carriage bustles through the busy Manhattan streets. The coolness of the glass, combined with the excited chatter of the women around her, create the perfect conditions for Mary’s mind to go numb. It isn’t long before she is drifting, on the verge of falling asleep.

Only a nudge from her mother saves her. When Mary looks up, it feels as if she has been tugged out of a dream. The church looms in front of her, straight out of a portrait.

“We’re here,” her mother whispers. Mary says nothing as her door is pulled open. She steps out without accepting anyone’s help, and relishes the feel of pavement beneath her feet.

The most striking thing about the church by far is the high white steeple that towers high above the lawn, vanishing into the pale glow of the sun. Next to that, however, the gardens are what steals Mary’s breath away. Tall, vibrant bushes and trees surround the church, bathing it in color. Cherry blossom trees line the pathway up to the church; a rich array of crocuses and daffodils light up the flowerbeds in sunshine colors; and around the church stretches a winding maze of flowering greenery. It would be so simple, Mary can’t help thinking, to slip into the garden instead of through those church doors. She could lose herself in there so much more easily than in the house of God.

Until her mother gives her arm a small tug, she doesn’t realize that she has stopped moving.

“Mary,” Henrietta says, peering at her with a delicate furrowed brow. “Are you alright?”

Her mother is staring at her too, with wide eyes, and anxiety swirling just underneath the polished mask of her face. Mary recognizes it, and guilt hits her as sharp as a kick to the stomach.

“Of course!” she forces a smile. “I’m just fine!”

Around her, the women chuckle. “Nerves,” someone suggests, and another voice remarks, “I was just the same on _my_ wedding day.” Their voices are distant, as if Mary is hearing them over the din of a raging storm. None of this feels like it’s really happening. This church can not be right in front of her, can it? And surely in the chapel, a full venue has not already been set up? Guests can not already be on their way to witness the end of her liberty, can they?

In two hours, she will not _really_ be a married woman… right?

This reality doesn’t seem concrete, but as they step into the church, Mary has to acknowledge that it is. She sidesteps a man carrying a vase half as large as her, loaded with lillies. Her heart starts to beat double-time. This is happening, and there’s no way to avoid that.

Today is her wedding day.

Mary follows her mother down a long corridor, and down a winding set of stairs that make her head spin. She pauses at the landing just long enough to stare down at her hand, resting on the railing; the stained glass mirror catches the light, painting her pale skin a myriad of colors. She studies the rainbow with dim curiosity for a few seconds before a call of her name spurs her forward again.

Everything is beautiful. Everything is perfect. Perfume is spritzed throughout the hallways; flower vases rest near every window. The sun is shining, the day is bright, and in the chapel above their heads, a wedding is being laid out to rival the extravagance of the Greek gods. No bride could ask for anything more.

Mary bites her tongue and bears it as the women usher her into a spacious dressing room and begins to fuss over. She is stood up straight, arms out like a mannequin. Henrietta and Elizabeth twist around her, poking and prodding at various places on her body to decide what would make her “look best for today”.

“You need the diamond earrings,” Elizabeth declares after a moment's scrutiny. “I know we all decided on the pearl, but the diamonds work so much _better_ with the dress —“

“Oh, I agree, Mary, you must go with the diamonds! The pearls around your neck will be enough. And what about the sapphire bracelets, have we got those? We need something blue!”

“She has the blue garters.”

“Those are already borrowed, they don’t count!”

Finally, Mary can take no more. She wilts under the attention, cringing back from more of their intrusive touches. Elizabeth’s brows furrow, and she opens her mouth to say something cross, but Mary’s mother beats her to it.

“That’s enough, girls! I think it’s time we give the bride her privacy, don’t you think? Besides, you’ll need to be ready in your own dresses too!”

This reminder of their own costumes — hanging patiently in the adjoining dressing room — is all that it takes to get the Kincaid girls off Mary’s back. Gasping and giggling to each other, they rush away. Mary is left feeling like she’s clawed herself out of the center of a hurricane.

Mrs. Kincaid presses the diamond earrings into her hands and smiles before slipping out the door after her daughter’s. Mary is left with only her mother for company. She may as well be alone.

For a long moment, she doesn’t say a word; she’s got no intention to. Turning to examine herself in the mirror, she twists back and forth and frowns at what she sees. The same wavy curtain of mouse brown hair, the same sharp-featured face, same narrow hips and too-long limbs. Nothing about her seems ready to be called a woman, let alone a bride.

Her mother’s reflection slips up behind her; Mary catches the smile that dances on her lips. It is softer now, more tender than she is used to seeing from her mother. She feels carefully-manicured hands run up her waist, stopping at her shoulder blades.

“Let me do this again,” her mother whispers. There is a brief window of relief as the stays of her corset are undone; then her mother begins to lace her up all over again.

Mary jerks with each tug of the strings. The girl staring at her in the mirror is wan and aloof, barely able to conceal the pain on her face. She will never get used to the corset, or the way it squeezes her ribs until she swears she can feel them breaking. (Sometimes, in the cottage with Mila, she’d been unable to bear the corset for a second longer; Mila was always more than willing to set her free, deft hands tugging each lace undone until Mary could breathe again.)

She closes her eyes, and for a fleeting second, she is able to imagine she is back with Mila once more. The brush of hands on her back chill her, like ghost fingers.

Another sharp tug jolts Mary back to the present. She blinks into the mirror and reminds herself: Mila isn’t here.

Her mother pulls the last stay into place, and takes a step back. “There,” she declares. Her hand lingers over Mary’s shoulder. “You look lovely, my darling.”

A smile ghosts across Mary’s lips. “I’m a regular Gibson Girl.”

It is her mother who helps her into her dress; her mother who fluffs the sleeves, pulls the various curtains of lace into place, who styles her hair back into its fine, curled braid, and adorns it — not with the glittering tiara she planned, but a diamond-studded comb.

Whatever the Kincaid sisters said, _this_  is Mary’s something borrowed — not the blue garters lent to her by her cousin Lucy, but the hair comb her mother wore on her very own wedding day. The jewel-encrusted flower that adorns it is old, as brittle as any real flower, but it still shines as it did the day her mother walked down the aisle. It sets off Mary’s dark hair, and gives her plainness a certain shine.

The dress looks as lovely on her as it did the day she first wore it. Mary, in her diamond earrings and sapphire bracelets, her waterfall of lace and gauzy fabric, could easily be mistaken for a princess.

(What would Mila say if she could see her now?)

“You look like an angel in your dress.” Her mother leans in, face hovering just over Mary’s shoulder. Mary half-expected her to hook her chin over it, leaning into her until she can walk in the shoes of the bride herself. She would be more than happy to hand this day over to her mother. To anyone. Not having to bear this burden is all she could ever ask for.

Mary tried to take a deep breath, but the corset cuts it off. There will be no catching her breath today, she realizes. Everything from her is a spiral down, down, out of her control. She is losing all she has left to hold on to — there is nothing to keep her from slipping down into an inevitable future. No chance of escape. No way out.

A rush of emotion hits her all at once. She blinks hard to keep herself from being swept away by it. Her eyes glimmer like black coals in the mirror, and her lip gives one tiny tremor.

“Mary,” her mother sighs. She lifts a hand to brush a stray strand of hair out of Mary’s face. Her touch lingers, like she does not want to let go. When Mary catches her mother’s blue-eyed gaze, she’s startled by something she has never seen before: a shadow of regret.

“I only did this for you,” her mother says in a soft voice. “All I want… is for you to be happy.”

Happy. Mary forces the gloom out of her face; the smile she paints on instead feels stiff. “I know that, Mother.”

Her mother’s eyes crinkle at the corners; there is a furrow in her brow that causes her whole forehead to wrinkle. She reaches up, and strokes Mary’s chin with the pad of her thumb.

“I only want to see you smile again, my dear.”

Mary stares back at her in the mirror. “Mother, I am smiling. Don’t be silly.”

A shadow flickers across her mother’s face. It is gone as soon as it appears.

“Of course,” she replies, her own smile reappearing again. She gives Mary’s shoulder one right squeeze, and presses a kiss to her cheek. “You certainly are.”

When she steps away, it becomes easier to breathe. Mary lowers her gaze from the mirror, unwilling to meet her mother’s reflection for a second longer, even when she says, “Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you up? The ceremony starts in fifteen minutes. We have time, but you can’t be late —“

“I’m sure,” Mary replies immediately. “I need a few moments to myself. That’s all, Mother.”

For a long moment, her mother is silent. When she speaks again, her voice is gentle. “Alright, my darling.”

Mary continues to gaze at the floor until she hears the door close behind her mother, and the silence of the dressing room envelops her like a warm curtain.

Finally, she is able to lift her eyes again. The woman in the mirror startles her. She recognizes everything, from the makeup-adorned featured to the styled hair and silky dress; yet none of it feels like her. She cannot place herself in the shoes of the woman in that mirror. She cannot begin to understand her.

 _What are you doing?_ she begs the woman, searching the depths of her dark, empty eyes. _Why are you doing this to yourself?_

Mary knows exactly why. This is the only thing she does understand. She is doing this because she has no other choice.

She frowns at the women in the mirror, and lifts her hands up to coif her hair. The pearls around her neck bite at her skin; she adjusts them. The lace collar of her dress isn’t falling right, so she plays with it until she gets it the way she wants.

What will her future be like as the wife of Alexander Kincaid? She will certainly be wealthy. She will live in a great mansion, fine on fine china every night, and wear the latest fashions from Paris. She will vacation on the Nile and the Riviera; her summers will be spent as far away from Castle Pleasant as possible. Perhaps she’ll have children. That might be something to keep her busy.

Mary thinks of little children running around her feet, with her dark hair and Alexander’s wicked grin. When she imagines the way they’ll shriek and roughhouse; her nose crinkles. They’ll hire a nursemaid, instead.

Perhaps Alexander won’t stay out too much at night. He’ll still gamble, of course, and still drink. For how long will he be adverse to honest work? Surely that won’t last a lifetime. At some point, Alexander will have to grow up. Will he become a man the moment he is married?

(Or is it only girls who are expected to become women the second a ring is slipped into their fingers? Perhaps men are granted the liberty of remaining boys for as long as they wish.)

The future won’t be so bad, all things considered. Mary has lived through worse. She can survive. She can… even be happy.

It will take her a while, but she _will_ be happy. Someday.

Mary searches the inscrutable face of the girl in the mirror, and wonders if she feels the same certainty.

When she closes her eyes, it’s almost easy to let go, and feel the world drift away. How she longs for that. How she years to be somewhere else. Anywhere that isn’t here, with a great party above her, and a crowd waiting to see her condemned to her fate. She would rather be at her own execution.

Mary forces her eyes open. Her face is pale under her blush; she punches more color into her cheeks. A few blinks of her eyes rids them of their ominous sheen. The few shallow breaths she manages aren’t as satisfying as deep ones, but they’ll have to do.

No more wasting time. She’s got a wedding to get to.

She steps into the hallway. Her brain half-expects it to find it dark, shrouded by shadow, the way any path to the guillotine ought to be. Instead, warm light beams in through the windows, illuminating the red and pink flowers that light up every vase. Oil paintings of preach their Old Testament lore from the walls. A tall crucifix gleams at the top of the staircase.

On the landing, a figure is shadowed by the mosaic’s kaleidoscopic glow. It’s colors beam all the brighter around them. For a moment, it almost makes Mary’s head spin. Reds, blues, greens, and golds all blur in the canvas of her vision. She’s forced to stop and grip the railing to regain her bearings.

When she looks up, the figure has turned around, and stepped back into the sunlight. Mary’s breath catches in her throat.

She looks different from the way she remembers, which is how Mary knows instantly that she is not dreaming. She’s seen Mila countless times, night and day, during rain and sun. None of the visions have been of her, as she might be — all of her as she was, with her blue skirts and flaming hair. Mila’s ghost was an echo, a ghastly distortion of the girl Mary remembered.

The Mila standing in front of her now is nothing like the one that lives in Mary’s memory.

Crimson curls are cut to the quick, falling just below her ears in a bob shorter than Mary remembers. Her face is thinner, paper-pale skin stretched tight over her cheekbones. There are shadows beneath her eyes that were not there before. Overall, Mila looks graver, older, less carefree than she did before.

A blue dress floats around her, hugging her waist and leaving her arms bare. Along her arms, Mary is stunned to see the skin blistered with fresh tissue that covers healing skin. The burns stretch from her hands up her forearms; some, she realizes, even line Mila’s collarbone.

This is not the burning star she has seen in her dreams, and not the phantom that has haunted her all month. There is nothing intangible about the woman standing in front of her.

“Mary,” Mila says, and Mary’s world drops out from under her.

The smile that takes over the other woman’s face is the sun breaking through a clouded sky. For all the times Mary has dreamed of seeing that grin again, she was not actually prepared for it. The breath is stolen from her lungs. She is left reeling, gaping at Mila as if she is a fantasy come to life. That must be all that is. She has to be a vision conjured by her desperate mind. Otherwise that means she is _here,_ right in front of her, and has been here all along, except Mary never dared to _see_ her...

“You’re alright,” she whispers.

Mila’s grin wavers, eyes sparkling with tears.

“I thought you were —“

“Dead.” Mila’s voice is soft; she does not look surprised, or even phased. She _knew,_ Mary realizes. This is exactly what Mila expected.

“After the fire, I couldn’t find you, and — and I was so scared, I didn’t know — I thought you jumped…”

“It’s alright, Mary.”

“No.” She presses the palms of her hands to her eyes to stop the world spinning around her. “No, it’s not.”

When she looks up, her throat is tight. She’s not sure she’s ever felt more desperate. “What happened, Mila?”

Mila takes a deep breath, and runs a hand over her forearm, as if suddenly self-conscious of the burns there. Mary can’t help stating. Mila catches her gaze, but does not cringe away; instead, she folds her arms over her chest, and straightens up.

“After you left, I couldn’t find Bessie. I was caught up there, and I couldn’t find a way out.”

Mary’s entire soul withers at the thought of Mila, alone and desperate, tearing through the loft for her friend until the very last moment.

“There was fire everywhere. It was tearing at my hair, my skin, burning my clothes right off. I knew if I didn't get out, I was a goner, and if I went to the locked door, I was good as dead. The windows were there, but… I couldn’t jump. I could even think of doing it.”

Mila swallows hard. Her eyes flicker, as if she is watching a scene from a very long time ago replay in front of her, clear as day. “I saw a bunch of girls running towards the stairs, and I wanted to follow ‘em. I tripped and hit the floor… when I looked up, they were gone. I didn’t know where they went, so I ran to the door, and I saw…”

Her eyes flutter shut. Every one of Mary’s instincts compel her to reach out and comfort her, but she remains paralyzed. The burns on Mila’s arms seem to pulse in the sun’s glow. “Upstairs was smoke and more smoke. I couldn’t even see through it. Downstairs… well, it was all fire. And I thought, if I run down there, I’m dead. If I run up there, I’m dead. If I stay here or go out the windows, I’m dead. And I didn’t want to die. So I… I did what I had to. The only thing I could.”

She lifts up her arms, as if presenting a gift. Mary blinks at them, feeling her stomach turn.

“I still held on to your coat — I wouldn’t let go of it. So I pulled it over my head, and I ran down. Into the fire.”

Mary’s eyes go wide.

“I don’t remember anything about making it down there. It was hot, that’s all I know… so hot. Then, nothing.” She cracks a thin, deprecating smile, so quintessentially _Mila_ that Mary has to swallow down a sob that rises in her throat. “The firefighters said I fell almost on top of them, and they had to send one man off to carry me back down. I wasn’t moving then. They thought I was dead, only I was so burned up — my arms and all, you know — that it was hard to tell. So they took me down, and good thing they did, because a week later I woke up in a hospital bed.”

She lets out a thin, shaky laugh. “My parents didn’t know what happened to me. _Tate_ haunted the docks for days, trying to find my body laid out with all those other poor girls. He almost… almost decided he found me, in this body too burnt all over to make out anything of her. Then a police officer got to him, said there was a girl in the hospital asking for her father. And that’s how he found me.”

When Mila spreads her arms, it looks inexplicably like she’s about to take a bow. After that story, she deserves it. Mary’s head is spinning; it is impossible to process every detail, every ounce of truth that she could have considered, but ignored.

“Mila,” she murmurs. “I had no idea.”

“Of course not. How could you?” Mila shakes her head. “Be easy on yourself, Mary.”

“If I hadn’t been —“

“Nothing that happened was your fault, and you know it.” Mila takes a step forward. Before Mary can stop her, before either of them can think better of it, she places a hand on Mary’s arm. Her palm is smooth with fresh-grown skin, blistered and rough in places. Mary can’t believe she’s healing as well as she is, in spite of her mottled forearms. As different as her touch feels, it is still the same one she dreamed about every night for nearly a year.

“The factory’d have gone up in smoke anyway. It was a matter of time. You couldn’t have helped Bessie, couldn’t have helped me. Everything that happened was going to, one way or the other, because no one would _listen_ to us.” For a moment, undiluted rage bleeds into her tone. Mary sees her face twist. Then, just like that, she softens again, and she is gentle Mila once more. “It wasn’t up to you to save me.”

“You saved me,” Mary protests weakly. Mila just smiles.

“Call it returning a favor. And I’d do it again. As long as you need me to. As long as we’re both alive.”

“We’re both alive,” Mary echoes — and all at once, she is overcome. Tears rush up on her so fast that she has no time to stop them. Her shoulders slump. Her face crumples. _“Mila —“_

Mila catches her. Mary knew she would, but she still falls apart in that grip — strong arms holding her up against the torrent of he world. A hand runs over her hair; Mila shushes her, holds her close and rocks her, even as she feels Mila’s own breaths come short and jagged. For a moment, Mila presses her face to the crown of Mary’s head. Lips brush over Mary’s scalp, firm and solid, like a promise.

“We’re alright,” Mila whispers. “We’re alive. Everything will be alright.”

Everything will be alright. Everything…

There is a future ahead of her. A future with Mila, alive and happy. A future that the two of them can spend together.

Mary comes back to herself in a sharp bolt of reality. She looks down at her dress and feels the overwhelming urge to be sick. Her jewelry suddenly weighs a hundred pounds.

“I don’t have to do this,” she blurts out. “Mila, you’re here. I can get out of this, we can --”

“Mary, Mary, no. That isn’t why I came here.” Mila lowers Mary’s frantic hands, shaking her head. Mary inhales a rush of air, brows furrowing as she fights off the urge to laugh -- or sob. The reality of Mila’s words hits her all at once. There is no reason for Mila to show up here today, just before she’s about to walk down the aisle.

“Why did you come here, Mila?” she asks softly.

Mila’s head lowers.

“I was… cruel to you. Finding out that you were engaged was a pain that I’ve never felt before; it hurt me more than typhoid, more than the fire. I… felt like my heart was being torn out. So I ran away from you. And Mary, I’ve never run away from anything in my life, but I ran away from you because I couldn’t bear that pain. I was terrified of it. I understood what it was, and… I wished to god I didn’t.”

“Would you have rathered you didn’t love me?”

“No,” Mila replies, pushing every ounce of emotion into the word. “I could never stand that. Couldn’t even imagine it.”

Mary exhales. “Mila…”

The other woman’s eyes are bright with tears. Mary feels the overwhelming urge to cup Mila’s cheek, but somehow she holds herself back.

“I came here today….” Mila takes a deep breath. “To tell you I understand. I don’t hate you for not telling me. I understand why you didn’t.”

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know that.” Somehow, Mila manages to smile. It’s watery, and the pain that swirls behind it sears Mary’s chest like a brand, but she’s smiling. For a second, she is sure that this is the cruelest thing she could imagine.

Then Mila shakes her head and says, “I had to tell you that it’s alright. You’ve got to do this, and it’s not fair of me to… resent you for it. I can’t hold you back. I can’t make you feel bad for marrying a man you love.”

“I don’t —“ The words choke in her throat. “Mila, I don’t love Alexander. I love _you._ I've loved you for so long.”

Mila hears these words, but she doesn’t react to them. If she flinches, just a little, Mary cannot be sure, because the split-second slip in composure is gone as soon as it appears. Her tranquil little smile remains fixed on her face.

“I know,” she says. When she repeats the word, her voice drops to a whisper. “I know. But you deserve to be happy, Mary. You deserve the future you were always meant to have.”

The future she was meant to have? What does that mean?

Mila takes a step forward, back against the halo of light shining through the window. Her hair is a cascade of colors; the landing barely creaks beneath her weight. “Now you don’t have to grieve for me. You can let me go. You’ve got to do that, Mary.”

She feels like a child again, overwhelmed and impossibly small. “I don’t _want_ to.”

Mila lowers her head. Mary sees the cracks spiderweb through her mask, forcing it to crumble at the edges, threatening to split it wide open. Her heart feels like it’s breaking; one look at Mila tells her she feels the same.

She takes two steps up the stairs, arm outstretched. Mila moves back again, reaching out to grip the railing of the first flight of stairs.

“You’re going to go on to live your life, Mary,” she tells her. “It will be successful, wealthy, and happy. I’ve got my own life to live — and I get to spend it thankful that I knew you, even for a little while.”

In spite of it all, they cannot be together. Their differences are too immense, their worlds too far apart. Their friendship was an anomaly, their love an aberration. It can go no further than this landing, this day, this moment in the sunlight.

That is what Mila is telling her.

Mary cannot think. It is impossible to accept this; her brain struggles to even process it.

Mila reaches out and seizes her hand, squeezing it tight. Her touch lasts for less than a moment, a handful of seconds stretched out into eternity, but it burns Mary’s skin. As soon as it is gone, she feels its absence like the sudden extinguishing of a candle, from light into darkness.

Mila mouths something that almost looks like ‘remember me’.

Then she pulls away, steps back, and turns up the stairs. Her feet echo delicately, heels clicking against the hard wood. Mary counts the beats of her heart along with Mila’s footsteps until she can no longer hear them. The only thing that lingers is the scent of jasmine perfume (the same bottle that belonged to Mila’s mother, the one she treasures). This is the only thing that assures her that what just happened was real.

Mila is alive. She made it out of the fire. She’s _here._

She let Mary go.

Her words ring in Mary’s head, over and over, a distant echo in an endless cave. She still feels Mila’s touch, sees the twin pools of her eyes shimmer. Everything about her is real, more than any memory, more than the fire ever was, than anything in her life has been. Mary has never felt more grounded in herself than this moment, with Mila still lingering in the air around her.

It’s all real. Suddenly, there is a future in front of her, glowing and tangible and just out of reach.

“Mary.”

Her head jerks up to the figure standing at the top of the stairs. It is her mother. Hands crossed over her chest, flowered hat pinned to immaculate hair, eyes downcast, she looks like a modern-day Madonna. (Is she weeping for her daughter?)

The words leave Mary’s lips, though she is not conscious of saying them. “It’s time.”

“Yes. We’ve got to hurry.” Her mother holds out a hand to her; carefully, Mary takes it.

Every step feels like it should not be; as if she has already died, already ceased to exist, and all she is now is a memory of what was meant to happen today. Her entire body weighs her down. Still, she manages to keep her back straight, and her arms at her sides. She does not turn and run, does not make a beeline for the doors. She cannot. That option was gone to her long before she saw Mila on that landing.

If she does not get married, her family will be humiliated. It will cause a scandal that will send all of Manhattan society into an uproar. The press would have a field day. Her mother would be furious. And how could she ever look Alexander in the eyes again?

Her fate was sealed from the moment she stepped out of that burning factory…

Or so she’s been telling herself, ever since that awful day. She convinced herself that marriage was the only option; that going along with the path chosen for her was the only way she’d be able to make herself whole again. Mary told herself that so many times that she believed it. She became numb, blind and mute, willingly allowing herself to be led towards her fate.

But how can she accept that now? Knowing that Mila is alive, _knowing_ that the world isn’t cruel enough to extinguish all hope in a single spark of flame?

They reach the chapel doors. Through them, she can see the entire party, five-hundred people strong, piled into pews. They are the audience eagerly anticipating a Shakesperean tragedy. The cream of Manhattan’s elite, all assembled here, to see her sell herself away.

The procession is lined up already, a bustling beehive of people who sparkle in their gowns and tuxedos. Mary feels underdressed compared to them, out of place; then she realizes she is wearing the most fantastic costume of them all.

“You’ll need this.” Her mother presses a bouquet of white roses into her hands; Mary regards them with bemusement. “And your veil. Darling, where is your veil?”

Her first thought is that she must have left it downstairs. Then her father steps up, arms burdened with white crepe. “I’ve got it.”

Before her mother can fix the veil over her head, he cups Mary’s face for the space of a breath. Her father’s eyes bore into her, and Mary is reminded of a time not so long ago when they told each other everything.

“Daddy,” she says. “I’m in love.”

There is no surprise in his face; only sorrow. “I know.”

Her veil is fixed over her head. Mary’s world is cast into a haze of white, and the world dances on the border between dream and reality. As she is ushered into line and the procession falls into formation, she struggles to cling to what is real over what is not.

Real: the organ starting up inside the chapel, signaling the wedding party’s commencement.

Not real: the flickers of fire at the corners of her vision, and the smell of smoke rich in the air.

Real: her aunts and uncles leading the way down the aisle, followed by Alexander’s sisters, and then Mary’s own mother.

Not real: the ghost of Mila’s hand lingering over her own, burning her flesh.

Real: the angelic flower girl, one of Alexander’s tiny cousins, leading the way into the chapel as Mary’s father hooks his arm around hers.

Not real: Mila’s laughter dancing over the strains of the Bridal Chorus.

Real: Mary’s own feet, carrying her down the aisle.

She is sucked back into awareness with sharp clarity. She is here. She is doing this.

As she passes by each pew, a sea of familiar faces watch her in adoration. At the top of the aisle, the priest is berobed in white. A heavy book sits on the altar before him; he watches the approaching bride with serenity. Just a few steps away stands the groom, looking anything but serene.

Alexander’s eyes are wide; his lips are slightly parted. As Mary draws closer and closer, she is able to see the sheen of sweat on his brow, the apprehension gleaming in his eyes, the tightness o his jaw. In seconds, she is standing in front of him. He lifts her veil with a minute tremble in his hands, and that’s the moment it hits her: Alexander is just as panicked as she is.

“Dearly beloved,” the priest intones, “we are gathered here on this joyous day…”

She tunes the priest out, focusing her attention on Alexander. She hasn’t spoken to him since the fire, so she hasn’t seen him; she hasn’t even thought of how these past few months has changed him as well. From the outside, it appears very little has been altered, but she sees a new maturity in his eyes that was never present in her childhood friend. It is not the maturity of a man prepared to become a husband; it is the maturity of a boy ready to condemn himself.

Gently, she reaches out and takes his hands. Alexander’s trembling ceases; he goes tense, for just a second, before his eyes lock with her and he relaxes.

There are no vows, because they haven’t prepared any. The priest charges on with the ceremony anyway. Each second feels like an hour, but the agony of time does nothing to calm Mary’s racing thoughts.

What does she want from her future? Would she be content to be a wife and mother for the rest of her life? She’d almost convinced herself it could be so, but now she knows better.

She cannot see herself being happy without Mila by her side. She could never be happy giving up the life she has carved out for herself in the past year. She loves writing; she loves being a reporter, telling stories, and having a voice. More than that, she loves giving other people a voice.

Writing is something that has always been a part of her, and she will never lose it. Could Alexander understand that? Of course, but she could not be the person she was — the person she is meant to be — married to him.

What about him? He doesn’t want to marry her either. Alexander is not ready to be a husband. He does not want to grow up yet, and Mary does not deserve to be married off to a boy in order to force him to become a man. She loves her friend, but she will never love him the way a husband should love a wife. She can’t… and she knows that Alexander feels the same way about her.

Neither of them will be happy.

How can they _do_ this to themselves?

A sudden squeeze to her hand takes her aback. Mary jolts to awareness just in time to see Alexander pull away from her, reaching for a gleaming diamond ring. In a second, he is holding it up; the dozens of tiny stones catch the light, casting rainbow fractals across the altar.

“Alexander Kincaid, do you take this woman…”

Mary stares at the ring. Her eyes flicker to Alexander. She sees a hollowness in his eyes.

“I do,” he says, and slips the ring onto her finger.

Then, all eyes are on her. It happens too fast. There is no chance for Mary to collect herself, or calm her racing heart. Suddenly, all eyes are on her, and words are forced to the tip of her tongue.

“Mary Alice Merran, do you take this man…”

She doesn’t want to speak. She can’t. The priest’s words are an incoherent slur. Desperate, her eyes are drawn out to the crowd, where every eye is fixed on her.

Dear god, _everyone_ is here. She can see them all.

There are Alexander’s parents in the front row, his mother teary, his father stern. There are his pretty blonde sisters whispering beside them. There is Jack, in one of the back rows, his pressed suit and fine bow tie giving away how hard he’s trying to fit in with these people, with this world he’s spent his whole life trying to be apart of. There are her two brothers, Victor in black, Jim and his perfect little family the picture of domestic bliss. There is her mother, pressing her hands together and trying not to cry. There is her father, watching on with an unreadable expression.

There is Mila.

Mary’s eyes catch on her, and the entire world ceases to exist.

She can’t help but think that Mila has never looked prettier than today. Even with her blistered arms and hair cut shorter, face thin and haunted… she is still _Mila._ She is the dawn, the future, adventure and humor and hope. She is everything Mary has always been in love with.

Her dress is shabby compared to the elaborately-dressed society audience; a simple blue frock, with white flowers embroidered over its breast. In this crowd, she would stick out like a sore thumb, which is why she does not dare set foot in the church. Yet Mary’s eyes are drawn to her anyway, because she will always find Mila in a crowd.

Mila stands silhouetted at the back of the church, just in the doorway. She can not resist watching the bride say “I do”. Some horrible, masochistic temptation has drawn her in, and now she can not look away.

Mary knows the feeling; she can not tear her eyes from Mila either.

Condemning herself would be one thing — but even with Mila’s blessing, she can not force the words from her tongue when those eyes are on her.

_Ask yourself what you’re fighting for, Mary._

Mila asked her that a lifetime ago, and the words embedded themselves in her heart. That was the beginning; that was the moment Mary became aware of how much she was changing, and charged forward with all her characteristic recklessness. Were it not for Mila, she never would have found that strength in herself.

_I’m fighting for you, Mila._

She gave up. When she thought she lost Mila, she closed her eyes and was willing to let the tide sweep her away.

That isn’t like the Mary Alice Merran she has become at all.

If she gives up, Mary realizes, she will not be forsaking Mila, or herself. She will be forsaking everything she has ever fought for, and everything she could be.

Her family. Her friends. Her life, her career, her future. Her love.

_What are you fighting for, Mary?_

_I’m fighting for me._

Mary turns back to Alexander. A gasp floods her lungs. She slips the ring off her finger, the metal burning her palm like a brand.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. Alexander’s eyes go wide as she presses the ring back into her hand.

Mary turns on her heel and faces the cathedral, packed to the brim with everyone she’s ever known. The aisle stretches out in front of her, white and endless.

She keeps her eyes wide open, and runs.

No one stops her. Perhaps they’re too shocked; perhaps some of them are just thrilled for something interesting to _finally_ happen at one of these endless society wedding. Mary doesn’t look back, even as she hears shocked gasps ring out behind her. Her eyes are trained on the doors, on the future, on Mila.

Mila sees her coming, and goes white with shock. She only has a second to run; she turns on her heel and sprints towards the doors, throwing them open and breaking into the open air of outside. A gust of warm breeze hits Mary; she drinks it in like nectar as she charges after her.

The spring day opens its arms to them. There is nowhere to escape; Mila rushes into the garden, and Mary follows hot on her heels. Her veil flies behind her, her shoes ache, and her dress tables around her legs. Mary cares about none of it. Mila is the only thing that exists, the only thing she needs to feel.

She catches her under a the curtain of a willow tree, behind the church. Surrounded by the lush garden, they are hidden from view. The church is a world away, the alarmed wedding party on a different plane of existence. Their entire universe is a microcosm of this place, this moment.

She holds Mila by the arms, forcing her to turn. In seconds, Mila goes pliant in her grip. Her eyes are wild, desperate, incredulous.

“Are you crazy?” she gasps. Mary can only smile; it dawns on her that she really might be.

“Mila, it’s you,” she says. “It’s always been you. And as long as it’s you, nothing else matters.”

Mila inhales a gasp that sounds like a sob. Her hand comes up to caress Mary’s cheek.

“We’ll make the future our own,” she whispers.

When Mila leans in, Mary is only aware of the swooping of her heart in her chest, like a bird in its final descent. There is no time to catch her breath. Then Mila is kissing her, and nothing else matters.

Her lips are like electricity coursing between them. They burn Mary up, forcing every nerve to stand on end. She leans into Mila’s mouth as if she’s never craved anything else more. When her hands twine in Mila’s short curls, she makes a soft noise against her, and pushes deeper.

They are desperate. They are joyous. This is everything Mary ever wanted.

She can feel Mila’s heart hammering against her breast as they pull away. Mila’s eyes are wide; she looks like she’s desperate to gasp for air, but has forgotten how.

Mary’s family will forgive them. The newspapers will forget. The world will understand. There is no sense in burning yourself up for society, or obligation, when the key to happiness is so close in front of you that you can reach out and grab it. Perhaps it makes Mary selfish, but she can live with that.

The world ahead of her will hold more articles, more journalism, more strikes and rallies and trips undercover. It will see the aftermath of a fire that rocked New York and the world; it will carry her to the end of a movement that has been one long, grueling battle. Another life stretches out before her, so much brighter than any other she could imagine.

Mila’s hands tighten around her, and Mary knows it will be alright. Mila will be by her side, and as long as she’s there, they can face anything head-on.

Now that she knows what she is fighting for, the future has never looked better.


	15. chapter sixteen

The soft cadence of Mary’s humming carries through the stillness of an early December morning.

The world is quiet here, eight stories above the city, with the curtains drawn and the entire room cast in dawn’s precious light. The only sound is Mary’s song, and the quiet rhythm of breath that assures her that Mila is asleep in bed beside her.

Last night, Mila fell asleep with the sheets tangled around her legs, her arms wrapped around her pillow as if she was trying to squeeze the life from it. At some point during the night, she moved; now she is flat on her back, the pillow hugged against her chest, one leg draped over Mary’s own.

Mary sits up carefully, determined not to jar the bed or Mila. She slides the pillow out from behind her own back. Mila doesn’t stir when a hand snakes its way under her curly head, lifting it up just enough for Mary to slip the pillow beneath her. When Mila’s head settles down once again, she looks more content than before. The soft glow of dawn casts golden shadows across her pale skin, drawing a coppery hue from her hair. Her scars look fresh and painless in this light, like the fresh skin of a child.

A tiny smile tugs at Mary’s lips. Every morning, she gets to wake up to the same sight, yet it never ceases to amaze her.

Her finger twines with a stray strand of red hair, brushing it back from Mila’s sleeping face. Mila’s eyes flutter, but do not open. She lets out a soft sigh.

 _“Oh, you beautiful doll,”_ Mary whispers, turning the bouncy tune slow and sweet. _“You great big beautiful doll… Let me put my arms about you… I could never live without you…”_

At last, Mila’s eyes slide open. Mary allows herself to grin fully, pressing the last words against her temple. _“Oh, you beautiful doll.”_

“I love it when you sing,” Mila murmurs. Mary’s lips graze her brown, for just a second. When she pulls away, Mila’s eyes are fixed on her, soft and brimming with warmth that perfectly suits the early morning.

“I wanted to find the perfect way to wake you up,” Mary tells her, very serious. “I’m still working on it.”

“Hmm? That was pretty good.”

“Maybe… but you’re not awake yet, are you?” Mary runs her thumb over Mila’s cheekbone, coaxing her drooping eyes back open. Mila offers her a languid, syrupy smile, shifting to rest her head against Mary’s chest. The weight is heavy, but not unwelcome.

“‘M getting there. Keep singing.”

“And sing you a lullaby? I don’t think so.”

Mary’s laugh jars Mila. She lets out a soft grunt, burying her face in the dark curtain of Mary’s hair pooling around both of them. If she thinks she can hide, she is sorely mistaken. Mary has grown too familiar with all of Mila’s quirks, and her reluctance to leave the bed each morning is no exception.

(She _loves_ all of Mila’s quirks too, but she’s long past the realization that she’s helplessly in love with Mila, so this isn’t really a surprise.)

Still, they’ve got a big day ahead of them. This is not a morning for languishing in bed. As soon as Mila’s senses return to her, she’ll be grateful to Mary for not letting her miss a second of it.

For now, however, Mary decides they can spare a moment. She runs her hand down Mila’s arm, and kisses her again. Mila hums, leaning up just enough to meet her lips. When Mary cups the back of her neck, she sighs, and Mary feels her smile against her lips.

“I know what you’re doing. It’s too early.”

“It’s nearly seven o’clock.” A year ago, sleeping in this late would have been a luxury. Now Mary is afraid she’s starting to spoil Mila, and the worst part is, she really doesn’t mind.

Life has been easy for them in the past few months. Perhaps they’ve grown complacent, but Mary doesn’t see anything wrong with that. After all they’ve lived through, all they’ve endured together, what right does the world have to deny them their happiness? What right do they have to turn away from it when it is right in front of them?

The days after the wedding were the hardest. Neither of Mary’s parents were angry; her mother sobbed non-stop for the first few days, and could not look Mary in the eye for a week after that, but she never cursed her daughter for what she did. Mary’s father, in comparison, seemed relieved. When they arrived home after the wedding, he pulled his daughter into a hug and did not let her go for a long while, until Mary’s heartbeat fell into sync with the one pounding against her chest, When he pulled away, he simply cupped her cheek; and the warmth in his eyes told Mary all she needed to hear.

Her parents set her up with a penthouse in Manhattan a few weeks later, ostensibly to escape media attention. Mary knows how difficult the decision was for her father, who still worries about her living alone all these months later; but he let her go. She couldn’t be more grateful for that.

The penthouse is a stark change from Mila’s tenement. She still lives there on the weekends, to support her family and help look after them. They believe she’s got an apartment with a few girlfriends, which isn’t incorrect. Mary’s parents don’t know about Mila at all -- or if they do, they don’t dare ask. The press has finally stopped sniffing around, so she and Mila don’t have to hide their comings-and-goings anymore. They can live their lives as they wish.

Mila got another job, in a shoe factory a few streets away from the Triangle. It’s a union shop, with shorter working hours, if not higher pay. She no longer stumbles through the door at night aching, dead tired. The job isn’t too hard on her arms, which still ache if she works them too hard. Mary would gladly support Mila on her own considerable allowance, but Mila is too stubborn for that, and values her independence too much. Mary can understand; she’s the exact same way.

Her reporting brings in a little extra money on the side. Meredith Bly is less active in the socialist circuit now, but she still pops up with an occasional article. Mary’s focus has turned less towards her pseudonym, and more towards writing articles under her own name. She’s still working to get a reporter’s beat somewhere — preferably anywhere _except The American Journal._ It’s a process, but the new year brings new opportunities. Mila assures her that she’s going to succeed; Mary has enough confidence to believe her.

After a few more minutes of soaking in the sunlight, she knows they cannot wait any more. The room is growing lighter as the last vestiges of night flee from the sky. Soon, they will have to be on the move; there is no more time for laying around in bed.

“Mila, my love, we have to get dressed. The trial will start without us.”

This is what finally gets Mila to stir; Mary knew it would. As much as dragging herself out of bed in the early hours has become a chore, Mila has not missed a single day of this trial for the past three weeks. Every morning, she has been waiting in the courthouse, posture ramrod straight and eyes alert, watching each witness called to the stand.

Mila hasn’t missed a moment, a second. The only part of the trial she didn’t watch was her own testimony.

Even during her third-degree at the hands of the Triangle factory owners’ shrewd defense attorney, Mila didn’t falter. She kept her eyes locked on Blanck and Harris, the two men who used to be her employers, as she described the mass of desperate girls pounding at the locked Washington Place door; as she recounted, in explicit detail, her descent into the maelstrom of flame. She did not flinch as she held up her arms to display her burns. She kept her eyes locked on the factory owners the entire time.

“I don’t care what the jury says,” she hissed under her breath to Mary, once her testimony was through. “I don’t care if they’ve got the best lawyer in New York. They knew that door was locked. They’re _murderers.”_

There is a difference between murder and manslaughter, between intent and ignorance. That separation matters little to the girls who were trapped up in the loft as fire burned their hair and dresses. Mary remembers hanging eighth feet over the ground from just a window ledge, and it suddenly does not matter to her either. The owners knew about the locked doors; it was a rule they enforced. They should be held accountable for the people who died because of it.

With a groan, Mila hauls herself sideways out of bed. Her back creaks. When she stretches her arms over her head, her shoulders pop.

Mary grins. “You’re an old woman.”

“I’m elderly,” Mila retorts. “There’s a difference.”

Pulling herself out of bed takes no small amount of effort, but as soon as Mary is upright, she’s moving. Her dress for the day is already selected; first comes brushing her teeth, combing her hair, making sure it doesn’t look obvious that she’s just rolled out of bed. Mila does up her corset, and she returns the favor. They both slide into their suits at the same time.

Mary takes at least fifteen minutes in front of the mirror, pinning her long hair up into an elegant topknot. When she returns, she finds the curtains wide open, tossing the room into the brightness of daylight. Mila is standing by the windows, hidden behind the broad lens of a camera.

Mary crosses her arms. “What are you doing?”

“Taking pictures,” Mila replies, defiantly cheerful. Mary rolls her eyes and takes a few steps forward.

Mila has the camera trained at the Christmas tree. It’s not much of a spectacle now — unlit, it looks far less impressive than it would in the evening, even if it does fill their apartment with the sweet smell of pine. There are still gifts littering the floor, all trinkets and boxes they never bothered to pick up. On the mantel, the shiny new menorah gleams. Hannukah has ended now, but Mila insists on displaying the menorah for as long as the Christmas tree is up. “All holidays ought to be equal,” she declares, and Mary has to agree.

(She also knows how much Mila loves the menorah. She’s never seen her eyes shine so brightly than when Mary presented her with the box on the first night of Hannukah. She nearly burst into tears.)

Mila has been in love with her camera since Mary presented it to her on the last night of Hannukah. It’s a clunky thing, heavy and unyielding, but it takes fine pictures. Mila has been snapping photographs nonstop for the past week, and Mary can’t complain when she gets to see her so happy.

“I’m taking this to the trial,” Mila declares. “I want to snap a photo of their faces when they’re sentenced to burn for what they did.”

“You can’t. You’ll get arrested.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Mila —“ Mary sighs, and reaches for the camera. “Come on. We’ve got to go.”

Mila sticks her head out from behind the camera, pouting. It only lasts a moment. After a beat, a new light comes into her eyes, and she grins again. “Alright, but only if you pose for me.”

Mary huffs, but Mila’s pout has her taking a few steps back anyways. Try as she might, she can never deny Mila anything. It’s certainly become her greatest flaw.

Mary tilts her head down, looking at the camera and fighting the urge to smile. She refuses to give Mila that satisfaction; but when her lover winks at her from behind the lens, she can’t help it. She hears the _snap-flash,_ and then Mila leans back with a look of utter delight on her face.

“You’re beautiful, Mary,” she proclaims. “My muse.”

“We’re not allowed to call each other that,” Mary retorts.

She holds out her arm to Mila. After a beat, Mila laughs, sets the camera down, and takes it. They stride out of their apartment together, side by side.

* * *

 

There are two figures waiting for them at when they reach the top of the street, braced under the security of the lamppost. Even this early, New York’s streets still pulse with life. Crowds bustle along the sidewalk, an unstoppable stream of bodies sweeping away anyone caught in its flow. Catching sight of the only people standing still at the edge of the bustle makes finding their escorts easy.

Mary raises an arm, but Mila beats her two it. “You two! Over here!”

Jarred from their conversation, the men look up. Mary fights back a grin at the clear look of annoyance on the more surly of the two faces. They must be running later than she thought.

“Here I was, thinking you weren’t coming!” the nearest of the duo says as the girls reach them. “I’m used to women avoiding me in the morning, but usually I’ve got to offend them the night before.”

“At least you’re honest, Alexander.” Mary catches Mila’s eye and grins, before reaching up to brush a few stray flurries of snow from the top of Alexander’s tophat. He huffs, shuffling back, but not before she brandishes the white powder at him triumphantly.

“Any longer and you would have turned into snowmen,” Mila notes with delight.

At Alexander’s side, Jack huffs. With his arms crossed over his chest, he’s the picture of sternness; if there’s one thing Jack doesn’t appreciate, it’s being late. Mary casts him an apologetic grin, and he just rolls his eyes.

“You leave us waiting in the dead of winter, what do you expect?”

“A little goodwill and cheer,” Mila retorts. “It’s still the holiday season, after all. Not to mention a very big day.”

Jack catches Mary’s eyes, and raises one brow. Mary shrugs. “We’re being optimistic.”

“Yes, we are,” says Alexander, pulling off his hat and shaking it. “This is the biggest trial New York has seen for a long time, and enough people are out for blood that there’s no way those two bastards will get acquitted.”

Mila grins at him. The past few months spent educating Alexander about the ways of unions and social justice have clearly not gone to waste. Pride shines in her eyes. (Mary thinks Alexander’s prediction is a bit too optimistic, but he’s still learning. All she knows is that the prosecution might have the outrage of America behind them, but the Triangle factory owners have Tammany Hall’s best lawyer. When the match comes down to the people versus Tammany, Mary knows enough about politics to guess who will win — outrage has nothing on political clout and cash.)

Satisfied with the appearance of his hat, Alexander places it back on his head, and doffs it in a jaunty manner. “Well, ladies, let's not waste anymore time. We’ve got a trial to get to.”

“Please,” Jack mutters.”

Alexander clicks his tongue. “Impatient.”

He offers his arm to Mary first; she takes it with a perfunctory, gracious smile. It’s fun to pretend to be a proper lady around Alexander; just to get to see him act like a respectable gentleman. He flashes a smirk, and she can’t help the rush of affection for her friend that surges up inside of her. For a long time, she’d been sure they would never be comfortable like this again.

Alexander offers his other arm to Mila. “For the pretty lady who ruined my wedding,” he says. Mila giggles, flustered. Even after months of knowing him, she hasn’t gotten used to Alexander’s twisted sense of humor.

At least they’re at the point where they can joke about it — not that the scandal has died down, and the wounds have almost healed up. Memories of the wedding are uncomfortable in general, but Alexander spits in the face of social convention. He had no problem rekindling his longtime friendship with the girl who left him at the altar (in spite of his family’s _many_ protests). He also has no issue joking about the whole disaster. It’s his way of coping, Mary knows; she surprised by how much it helps her get over the hurdle as well.

The past is behind them, and they’re working hard to heal the scars it’s left behind. When Mary sees her old friend smile at her, she can’t help but think that they might just manage it.

The four of them walk together towards the courthouse — Jack, Mary, Alexander, and Mila, a tight cluster of acquaintances-bordering-on-friends. They weave through the city crowds, chattering amongst each other, buzzing with anticipation for the day ahead. Mary finds herself surrounded by familiar conversation, and basks in it.

Were it not for any of these people, she would not be where she is today. They know her the best in the world, and Mary couldn’t appreciate them more if she tried. Hopefully, they’ll all be a part of her life for a long, long time.

She feels an elbow press into her side. When she looks up, Jack is staring at her. His handsome mouth is creased, eyes sharp and inquisitive. He raises his eyebrows at her.

“Alright, Boss?”

Mary meets his eyes, and feels a smile spread across her lips. They both know how many tough questions a reporter faces in a day. This one, at least, is easy.

“Yes,” she replies. “Absolutely fine.”

* * *

 

The final day of the trial passes by in a rush. All testimony has been heard, all statements made. Now, all that is left is for the jury to reach a verdict.

Mary’s heart sinks when the judge addresses the jurors: they must determine not only that the factory door was locked, but that the two owners knew about it. A low hum ripples over the crowd assembled in the courtroom. Only a few people realize what these words mean, but those that do suddenly appear grim and tight-faced. Stomach sinking, Mary slumps back into her seat.

Alexander glances around him in confusion. Mila and Jack’s attentions are both rapt on the proceedings, so Mary takes pity on him.

“We could go out to lunch,” she whispers. “I don’t think this will take that long.”

Alexander’s questioning stare is met with an answer just two hours later. The jury returns their verdict. Blanck and Harris, owners of the Triangle Shirtwaist factory — the very men who insisted on searching each employee’s bags at the end of the day, and who kept factory doors locked to regulate who came and went — rise to their feet to hear their fate read.

In just a moment, the courtroom has erupted into chaos. Mila has to grip Mary’s arm to remain standing.

“It doesn’t make sense,” she mutters. “It’s not right… they’re murderers. Murderers.”

The factory owners go free. The Triangle Shirtwaist Fire is deemed a tragic accident — but no one will be held accountable for it.

Mary and Jack both support Mila on their way out of the courthouse. She’s unsteady on her feet. Mary is glad for the firm grip on her arm; she half-expects Mila would rush back inside to find Blanck and Harris herself, if she were able. By the time they make it a few blocks away from the courthouse, Mila has somewhat collected herself, and Mary finally feels its safe enough to let go.

Alexander hasn’t stopped ranting since the moment the verdict was ready. He keeps up his buzz even as Jack patiently handles his rapid-fire questions. “Not guilty? How did the prosecution not prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt —“

“The defense was planting doubt into the jury’s mind from the beginning,” Jack replies. “As long as the defendants denied knowing about the door, there was no way for them to prove —“

“So many people _said_ they knew about it.”

“But they couldn’t _prove_ it. The judge’s order was impossible. It left only one possible verdict. Every attorney in that room knew exactly how the case would go from the moment he spoke.”

“It’s not right!”

Alexander is furious. All at once, Mary realizes she’s never seen him this incensed before; his fists are clenched, eyes wide and blazing, a flush high on his cheeks. When he spits the words, they strike the ground like acid. “It’s a damn miscarriage of justice, is what it is. That defense lawyer is a snake. All of his tricks in there could have been countered, if the prosecution had just damned seen them —“

He cuts himself off, biting his tongue. His breathing is ragged.

“If it bothers you so much,” Mary says in a measured voice, “you do have your own law degree.”

Something sparks in his eyes. If Mary didn’t know better, she might call it ambition. Then again, this is Alexander.

“You’re right,” he replies. “I do.”

When Jack turns to him again, Mary catches a newfound respect in his face. There’s nothing Jack admires more than someone determined to do something; if he sees some capability like that in Alexander, who is she to tell him otherwise?

Maybe Alexander Kincaid will wind up surprising everyone, and prove them all wrong.

Mila doesn’t say anything through the rest of Alexander’s rant, or after. All the way home, she is silent. Even when the men split up to hail a streetcar, she offers no more than a wave and a quiet call of farewell.

Mary keeps a hand on her back all the way to the apartment. To anyone else, it would look like a casual touch; for her and Mila, however, it is a sacred comfort.

Mary turns her key in the lock. The penthouse door swings open. Mila takes a few steps inside, sheds her coat and boots, and abandons them in the hallway. The bedroom door slams shut behind her.

Mary takes the time to hang up their clothing. She carefully slings their coats on a hanger, placing them in the closet. Afterwards, both sets of winter boots are lined up on the closet floor. She shuts the door, and goes still in the ensuing quiet. The muffled echo of sobs fill the apartment.

For another moment, she doesn’t approach the bedroom. She goes into the kitchen and turns on the kettle.

When she finally knocks on the bedroom door, it is with two mugs of hot chocolate balanced on a tray. Mila is sitting up in bed, hair rumpled, face blotchy and swollen. Her tears have been scrubbed away, however, and her breathing is almost back to normal. She tilts her head when Mary enters.

“Is this supper?” she asks, allowing a mug to be pressed into her hands. Mary shrugs, settling down beside her.

“It could be. Dessert before dinner… change things up a bit.”

“We’re nothing if not unconventional,” Mila agrees. She takes a sip of her chocolate, sighs, and closes her eyes. Mary wonders if she’s relishing the taste, or losing herself in other memories — the ones they both try not to revisit.

She can’t stand the thought of Mila going somewhere she can’t follow. When she places a hand over her own, Mila starts, eyes sliding open again.

“You’ve never stopped fighting,” Mary says to her. Something in Mila’s face falters and looks perilously close to breaking.

“Sometimes, I wonder what I’m really fighting for.”

Mary presses her lips together. Her hand comes up to run through Mila’s curls. At her touch, Mila leans into her, resting her head against her shoulder.

“You know that,” Mary tells her. “You know who you’re fighting for. They’re with you every day. If they’re the spark that keeps you burning, or you find it somewhere else, you’re always going to know what you’re fighting for, Mila. And you’ll never give up, because that’s just the person you are. I admire you more than I’ve ever admired another living soul — because you always have something to fight for.”

She pressed her lips to the crown of her head. “You fight like a wildcat. You fight like a lioness. You fight like you, and I don’t know anyone stronger.”

Mila looks up at her; a thin smile tugs at her lips, so faint that Mary could almost be imagining it. When she reaches up to cup Mary’s jaw, a current of electricity races across her skin.

“You’re a fighter too,” Mila murmurs. “And you’re stronger than even you know.”

“You make me stronger.”

“Then we’re in luck.” Mila huffs a laugh. “You do the same for me.”

When Mila kisses her, it is as natural as the sun setting over the midwinter sky; the world is cast in a brief, brilliant flash of gold, as fleeting as it is precious. When Mary opens her eyes, she can feel the last rays of sunlight on her skin, tingling against her lips.

Some things are meant to change; some things are bound to stay the same. Mila will always be driven by her desire for a better world. She will never stop pushing, never silence herself, and the ghosts of her coworkers lingering over her shoulder will only drive her further. Mila will always be a force of nature.

Mary is mercurial, ever changing; she is not meant to stay the same for long. Any attempt to anchor her to one version of herself will destroy her. She needs to evolve the way she is meant to, because she is one of those people who are always supposed to transform into a different (better) version of herself.

The person she has become is one that she would not have recognized two years ago; but she could not be happier with where she’s ended up. She does not know where life will take her from here. All she knows is that she wants to spend it with Mila at her side.

The world will change too, because that is the one thing that will never stay the same. Every day, the earth turns in the direction of something new: a bright, bold, beautiful future. Is it the one Mila is fighting for? Will the future of a hundred years from today see disasters like the Triangle abolished, and workers kept safe? Will the women of the next century be free to choose what they do and who they love?

Mary has no way of knowing. All she can do is take a page from Mila’s book, and keep her eyes trained on the brilliant horizon.

She clasps Mila’s hand in hers, and realizes that whatever the future holds, she will not be afraid. Wherever the path goes, it will lead her away from the fire, and towards something great.

There is nowhere to go but forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished my book.


End file.
